Borderline
by e-dog
Summary: Summary: A looney brother, a freak accident and a fortuitous love. It was bound to drive you a little crazy, right? Slight spoilers for Committed, Nesting Dolls CathSara femmeslash
1. Crazy

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Notes: I've been writing a lot of unfinished Cath/Sara fic lately, mostly all in the second person and from Sara's POV. I just couldn't get anything to work. So, I sat down and decided to cut and paste all of these unfinished fics and tie 'em together. Coupled with a different angle concerning Sara's family history and you've got this. I don't have a real outline for this and I don't really know where it's going or if it will end or whatever, but I want to give it a try. Hope you enjoy my latest foray into the Cath/Sara realm.

Category: Drama/Romance/Humor

Summary: A looney brother, a freak accident and a fortuitous love. It was bound to drive you a little crazy, right[Slight spoilers for Committed, Nesting Dolls; Cath/Sara femmeslash

**Borderline**

by e-dog

**Crazy**

You often wonder what categorizes someone as 'crazy'.

What you've done in life, the things you have said to others could very well justify you as a crazy person. Still, there are different kinds of crazy and it's fairly important that one understands the differences between each kind.

There's the 'mentally insane' crazy. The kind you don't like to think about. The kind that reminds you of home. The kind that nearly got you killed a week ago. That kind of crazy is dangerous.

There's the 'lack of sleep, slowly losing your faculties' crazy. You think you fall somewhere along there. You don't sleep very well. Each day, your mind finds new ways in which to torment you.

Then of course, there's the 'environmental' crazy. Where you live, where you work, the people you work with; they all somehow factor into your craziness. It's the kind of crazy that constantly makes you wonder, are they all out to get me?

"Sara?"

You glance up to find Catherine standing there in the doorway of the breakroom. She's wearing a very amused smirk, eyes twinkling in an irritating fashion. After a few more seconds pass, that classic simper has grown into a full blown grin. A grin that you're certainly not in the mood for. What the hell is so funny, anyway? Considering where your relationship stands at this point, you don't find one damn thing funny.

You have to admit, however, she has been making strives for a truce. They are half-ass attempts, but attempts nonetheless and you could at least applaud her for that. Even still, you're not willing to meet halfway yet, so she will just have to keep trying or eventually give up. You would prefer the latter.

You fail in giving any kind of audible acknowledgment of her presence, your usual tactic. You hope that maybe ignoring her will make her disappear. You're never so lucky.

"How long have you been at the lab? Fourteen hours? Sixteen?" Catherine asks you, still highly amused by something near or around you. Maybe she is laughing at you.

"Uh, yeah. About that much. Why?" you reply, still trying to figure out what's so damn funny.

"Go home and sleep. One, you look like the living dead," she points out unmercifully, to which you answer with a heavy sigh. Then she adds smartly, "Two, you're stirring your coffee with a pencil."

"What?"

You look down at your cup of coffee. Your cheeks flush with embarrassment as you notice the yellow stick swirling around in your hot beverage. You quickly fish that pencil out of there and set the coffee aside. You groan mostly to yourself. "Maybe I _do_ need some sleep."

Catherine chuckles as she makes her way over to the coffee machine. You're silent for a moment before she asks, "Would you like me to make you a new cup, minus the graphite?"

"Sure," you say indifferently. Your original cup of coffee had merely served as a diversion anyway. Stirring the dark liquid as a means to keep your mind off other things. You hadn't really planned on drinking it, but considering you had a pencil in it, you're really glad you didn't drink it.

A new, fresh cup is set in front of you in no time.

"No cream and two packs of sugar," Catherine announces somewhat proudly. You give her a curious look, wondering how she knows what you put in your coffee. She seems to catch your confusion and supplies the answer. "We've made coffee together in the same breakroom for the last five years. As an investigator, you tend to pick up on these things whether you want to or not."

You have this nagging urge to tease her. Sure, you've worked together for five years, but let's face facts. You're just as observant as Catherine and needless to say, you have no idea what she puts in her coffee everyday. And now that your curiosity is peaked, you watch her dump in about a teaspoon of cream and one pack of sugar. You'll have to log that away somewhere for future reference.

Your eyes catch each others in a moment of diluted silence. She flashes that quirky smile at you and winks. For the first time in days, you smile. You actually smile and it feels good.

It's that motherly side of Catherine, the side that you forget exists somewhere underneath that hardened exterior. Despite her bitchy tendencies, you find yourself immensely enjoying her spastic moments of maternalistic care and solace. It's something that's been lacking in your life for a very long time.

You realize you're still smiling into your mug and immediately stop. She doesn't need to see that you're getting back to normal. You're still angry at her, damn it. She doesn't need to see that she's wormed her way back into your good graces simply by mixing up your coffee just right. Oh, and trust. . .it's perfect.

"Are we friends again?" she asks. Good grief, she's reading your mind now.

"Were we friends before?" you jest, unable to keep from smiling.

"Good point," she concedes, her smile two-fold. She sips her coffee, then yanks the cup back quickly. She spills some on the table and curses, "Damn it."

"Too hot?" you ask, reaching for a napkin almost immediately. It's only when your hand brushes hers, do you realize you both had the same thought. Catherine clearly beat you to the napkin by about two milliseconds, but her hand still lingers. She doesn't move. Your hand is still hovering over hers and you wonder why you haven't pulled back yet.

The tip of her finger barely grazes your palm (whether it's accidental, you're unsure) and your hand snaps back like it's been burned.

"I have it, thanks," she says quietly, finally grabbing the flimsy sheet of paper and wiping up the table. She's dutifully trying to avoid your eyes, your face. Something happened there. Something shifted. You went from mildly annoyed to amicably comfortable to strangely displaced, all in the span of a few minutes. Something shifted. Catherine just did something to you.

Or maybe you did just something to her. She's different. She's not looking at you.

You clear your throat. "Catherine?"

"Hmm?" She looks up at you again. She seems normal now, her eyes connecting with yours and there's not a shred of discomfort in her gaze. The spilled coffee, her accidental touch is suddenly a distant memory.

You force a smile and just shake your head. "Never mind."

Her brow crinkles a bit as she squints ever so slightly at you. Now you take your turn to avoid her eyes. There are moments you think Catherine sees you differently. That she sees you as more than just who you are, but those moments happen so quickly, so innocently, you have to wonder if your imagination is just running wild.

On a good day, Catherine is just your co-worker and nothing more. You two fight on occasion, disagree about things, but oddly you find you don't mind that so much. There is something enjoyable, something comfortable about quarreling with Catherine. On the other hand, you find that your differences are the only things that bind you together and you'd like to think there's something else going on here. There has to be something else that connects you to Catherine aside from a difference of opinion on the job.

After five years, you'd like to think there's something more.

"Sara," she says, her voice almost shy.

When you look up, you're back in that moment. The moment you think Catherine sees you as more than just who you are. You feign awkwardness, giving her a tentative smile. "What?"

"I do think it's important that we get along," she says, her smile timid.

"Okay," you say, not sure what else to say. You feel a little out of place right now. You set your coffee mug down.

Now Catherine's expression is that of classic irritation. "That's it? All you got for me is an 'okay'?"

You go to say something, but like you said, you're not sure what else to say. So your mouth opens, then closes like a fish gasping for water.

Catherine leans back in her chair, looking at you askance. "I swear, talking to you is like talking to Grissom. Sometimes it's scary how much you two are alike."

You cough at that statement. You and Grissom alike? Sure, maybe in some ways. You'd like to think you're more eloquent than him, though. Right now, though, eloquence abandons you.

"I'm sorry, Catherine. I just don't know what you want me to say."

"At this point, I'll accept a prediction for when you think hell will freeze over," Catherine retorts.

"Five years, two days and eighteen hours from now," you reply smartly. There really is something enjoyable about quarreling with Catherine. It's what binds you together.

"Okay, smartass. I've been trying to apologize for the last three weeks now," Catherine says, clearly angry now. "I was advised by our mutual boss that it might be a good idea, that we work better when we're not fighting. You're not helping."

You shake your head. "Cath, you've done everything but say 'I'm sorry'. If you really want to apologize to me, then just do it already."

"You know what? How about I apologize to you in about five years, two days and eighteen hours from now," Catherine practically growls at you.

Or in other words, when hell freezes over.

Catherine stands up to leave, but she doesn't go anywhere, much to your surprise. You watch her slowly fall back down into her chair. She looks exhausted, defeated. You raise an eyebrow curiously, not sure what's going on now. Usually after a verbal spat, one of you walks away. She's not walking away.

"Sara, I'll be honest with you. I really think you should apologize to me," Catherine says. Before you can disagree, she raises a hand up to silence you. "Look, I know you don't see it that way, but you hurt me just as much as you think I hurt you. Okay? What you said hurt me."

You didn't want to hurt her. Well, maybe at the time you wanted to hurt her, you wanted someone else to be hurting just as much as you were hurting. Still, deep down, you didn't want to hurt her.

"Probably didn't help that I shouted out my misgivings for the whole lab to hear," you acknowledge reluctantly.

"I wish I had the forethought to pull you into my office, approach you as a friend and not as a supervisor," Catherine sighs. "Might've prevented your suspension."

There's that word again. Friend. You find it hard to believe you and Catherine have ever been friends. Maybe you are, you just didn't notice? Or you didn't care to think beyond the world of co-workers.

You and Catherine are fine just the way you are, you think. To be friends, there would have to be something else there. A something you haven't been able to find. To be friends, you'd have to do more than fight with her. Again, the fights are oddly gratifying. The question is, do you really ever want to venture into the realm of friends with Catherine?

"Sara, for once, could you say something? Anything?" Catherine pleads.

It's only now you realize you haven't spoken in quite a while. She practically wished aloud that things had gone down differently and here you are over thinking the word 'friend' and what that would mean for you and Catherine. You and Catherine. Friends.

It seems she would like to. She would like to be your friend. Or maybe she's just really tired of arguing and trying for a friendship of sorts is the only means in which to reach that goal. You don't really know her motives, but you do know she's trying.

You grudgingly admit that maybe you're being the stubborn one this time. Catherine really is trying for a truce here. Maybe it's about time you met halfway.

"Jesus, Sara. Forget I came in here," Catherine sighs, throwing up a hand in defeat. You really need to work on this speaking up thing.

"Cath, wait," you say finally. This stops her before she walks out. "Sit back down? Please?"

Catherine sits and waits with an expectant look. You sigh. Here goes nothing.

You lean forward and say, "Catherine, I'm a lot of things. I can be selfish, angry, resentful, but none of those things gave me just cause to say what I said. I'm . . ."

"Yo, Sara."

Greg's voice snaps both your attention to the doorway. Damn that boy and his timing. He nods his head toward the receptionist desk and tells you, "You've got a call. The woman on the other end says it's urgent."

A phone call? Aside from your co-workers, you don't have very many people in your address book who would take the time to call you. You look at Catherine apologetically, but she waves at you to go.

"Sara?" she calls out to you, just before you exit the breakroom.

"Hmm?" you look back at her, lingering in the doorway.

Her expression is sympathetic as she says, "Maybe someday you'll tell me why."

"Why what?"

"Why you're angry."

Your lips naturally purse together, as you take a brief moment to consider her offer. Catherine really wants things to be okay between the two of you.

"Yeah, maybe," you tell her and the relief that flashes in her eyes leaves you feeling content. Things with her will be okay. Maybe you can consider this a new beginning.

Reaching the desk, you see Warrick and Nick down the hall reading a report of some kind. They're a little too close for comfort, but privacy is a hard thing to come by in this lab. Glass walls, open doorways, nosy labrats. You'll have to try and keep this call short, sweet and discreet.

Judy smiles when you reach for the phone already sitting out and waiting. "Line 2," she says.

"Thanks," you mutter, picking it up. "Hello?"

"Miss Sara Sidle?" a woman with a gruff voice greets you. She sounds irritated and mean. You frown. You don't like mean people.

"Yes, I'm Sara. Who is this?" you say, already bored with this conversation. Must be some kind of confirmation on a case from the DA's office or something.

"I'm Susan Gilbert with Child Services. A man walked in here yesterday evening claiming to have a sister named Sara working for the police," Susan tells you. "You're the only Sidle working with law enforcement in this city."

Your heart had already clamped shut at the sound of 'child services'. Processing the words 'man' and 'sister' and their meaning in your own life have effectively shut down all motor skills.

Damn, damn, damn. Not good. Not good at all.

You clear your throat again, noticing Catherine has joined Warrick and Nick. Her curious eyes are traveling down the hall toward you. You weakly smile at her.

Right, that was brilliant. As if _you_ smiling at _her_ will really put her at ease. That'll only signal that something is really, really wrong. You never smile at her.

"His...uh, his name?" you ask quietly. Judy is also looking at you from behind her desk. Good grief, no privacy in this place!

"Paul Sidle," Susan answers. Yep, it's Paul.

"Is he okay?"

"He's fine. Now, Miss Sidle. You're his only family in the area and we can't keep him here. You'll have to pick him up."

Your eyes widen. "I can't!"

Now you see Catherine out of the corner of your eye. She's moving closer. Damn it.

"Oh, you _will_ take him, trust me. If I have to drive him over to your place myself, you'll take him," Susan promises. "We're overworked as it is and babysitting is not listed as one of the job requirements. It's plainly obvious he's been looking for you."

You rub your eyes, then see Catherine trying ever so hard to approach you without being invasive. You turn your back to her and say as softly as you can, "Paul is a grown man, Ms. Gilbert. He can take care of himself. Just give him a little bus money and he'll leave. He always does."

Susan sighs that time. Her voice seems to soften as she nearly whispers, "Sara, I'm sure you must know of Paul's. . .condition. I'd feel much better if you picked him up."

The way Susan says 'Paul's condition' makes you want to reach through the phone and slap her. As if Paul is diseased or something. Your readily need to protect Paul, however, only proves that you still have a soft spot for him. He is your brother.

You slump against the receptionist desk and shut your eyes tightly. Of all the freaking times for your brother to disrupt your life, it had to be now.

"Sara? I need an answer."

You sigh heavily into the phone, then say, "Fine. I'll get him. Give me an hour."

You drop the phone and stand straight again. That didn't happen. Just stand here for a minute, yeah. In a minute, you'll realize this is all a dream.

"Sara? Everything alright?"

Not a dream. Definitely not a dream. You turn to Catherine, stupidly plastering that smile back on your face again. "Great, just great. I think I will go home, though. You were right. I've been here too long. I need sleep."

Catherine gives you a funny look. "Sara? You feeling okay? I think you just told me I was right."

"I did?" you ask, then gesture with your hands in a flighty manner. "I did. I did. Look, I have to go. Everything's fine."

Whatever Catherine said next, you did not hear. You simply brush past her quickly, round a corner and kick the first thing you see. It's a trash can. The trash goes everywhere.

Okay. Release of your frustration in a physical manner taken care of. Now if you could only start digging out your brain with a spork through your ear, that would take care of all the mental problems

you'll be sure to endure before the day is out.

"Uh, Sara? You gonna clean that up?" Nick asks. You ignore him and storm into the locker room.

You throw open your locker and grab your things. You're still upset.

For crying out loud, Paul! Why now?

You need to get over there, you realize. You have to get there as soon as possible. You have to fix things and get your life back on track. He can't be here. He just can't be here! He has to go back home.

"Sara?"

"What?" you reply curtly, whirling around as you slide your jacket on.

Catherine stiffens a bit. "Are you sure everything is okay?"

Something about Catherine's posture, her voice gives you reason to pause. You've never really known her to be disquieted, reserved. Especially not around you. She's watching you intently, her hand fidgeting with the hem of her blouse.

"Sara, you're scaring me a little," Catherine tries to joke.

"I just have to take care of something," you answer, feeling a bit calmer now than before. You weakly smile, "I didn't mean to . . ., uh. . .."

"Hey, don't worry about it," Catherine shrugs it off. She backs out of the doorway. "Just take care of yourself."

She's gone before you can reply.

If you didn't know any better, you might say that Catherine was really concerned just then.

Damn it. Okay, time to get it together. If you've broken Catherine with your erratic behavior, that means you've gone too far. Don't lose it now. Your suspension merely added flame to the fiery hearsay surrounding you. Don't give your friends reason to believe that you're crazy. You're not crazy.

You're just a tad unstable.

Now your brother? He's the crazy one. He's crazy and you're about to pick him up and bring him into your home. You're going to bring him back into your life.

Hm. Maybe you _are_ the crazy one.

To be continued. . .


	2. Paul

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Notes: See first chapter.

**Borderline**

by e-dog

**Part Two**

**Paul**

You smooth your hair down, then adjust your jacket back onto your shoulders. You probably smell like motor oil, but Paul has this thing about timing and he definitely didn't give you time to take a proper shower. You could be really angry with him right now, but you're not. You're concerned.

You'd rather be pissed off, because anger is one of those emotions you do well. Concern? Not so much. Concern is awkward, unsure, unsteady. Anger is a one way street, usually with a primary focus. No forks in the road, no uncertainty. Just anger in the purest form of the word.

Unfortunately, you're not angry. You're concerned. Very concerned.

You remember _where_ you left Paul and _why_ you left him there. If he's found a way to get to Vegas and find you, that means he did something wrong. That means he wants you to fix it. He's irritating like that.

You walk right up to the little window in the wall and see a young woman tackling the paperwork on the desk. Phones are ringing. She's pointedly ignoring them.

"Excuse me?" you say, tapping the glass to assure she pays attention to you.

"Yes?" the woman greets you without looking up.

You sigh. "I'm here for Paul. Paul Sidle."

She turns around and yells, "Susan! Sara Sidle is here for that guy!"

You frown. "That guy" is your brother. You forgot how easily a person becomes nameless in a place like this.

A door off to the side opens and out comes Paul.

You forgot how much he looks like Dad. Tall, lanky, and dark. Well, that description represents you as well, but you didn't inherit Dad's eyes. Paul did. He looks like Dad. His eyes are just like Dad's. You forgot how much Paul can scare you. How his eyes can see through you, just like Dad. Just like Dad.

Paul is dragging his feet, clutching a duffle bag to his chest and he's not looking at you. You frown deeper. His downward gaze suggests bashfulness. A duffle bag indicates he plans on staying with you for a while. He ran away. He ran away to you.

A woman you presume to be Susan is right behind him. You walk over and before you can get a word out, Paul says grimly, "You suck. What took you so long to get here?"

You lick your dry lips, not sure how to respond to his greeting. Then again, you didn't really expect him to gush and hug you and be all happy and carefree either. What really makes you pause is his voice. Has it been that long since you last heard him speak? Must have, you suppose. Five years. His deep baritone belie the childish words that leave his mouth. He sounds more like a lawyer, not an emotionally challenged head case.

You glance up at Susan and say to spite him, "I hope he wasn't too much of a pain in the ass."

"I hear you," Paul retorts. "You always do that. Talk about me in front of me like I'm not here. You suck."

You roll your eyes, grab his arm and yank him toward you. He doesn't fight back.

Susan shrugs, "He got a little mouthy when hungry, but other than that, he was fine. Have a good day, Sara. Bye Paul."

Paul doesn't say anything. You pull on him so he'll follow you out the door. You don't like being rough with him, but it's one the few ways to get him to submit and listen to you. You're the eldest therefore you're the one in charge and Paul recognizes that. When you get to your car, you let him go and begin to pace the lot.

"Sara, don't be mad," he begs, suddenly his demeanor that of a six-year-old boy. He clutches his duffle bag tightly.

"Well, I am mad, Paul," you tell him, continuing to pace. You glance at him from time to time.

His clothes look new. That's a good sign. Back when you were in college, he decided he wanted to become a drifter. Great career choice, huh? After a two week long search, you found him huddled up with his new buddy Jim on a street corner. Jim introduced Paul to whiskey. They were both begging for food and money.

Of course Paul had no need to do such a thing. His assisted living home was a mere two blocks away. You remember screaming at him because you missed a couple of important midterm exams to come home and look for him. Paul never comprehended your anger. He has a hard time understanding feelings that are not his own.

You finally stop pacing and look at him. Your voice wavers some, both in sadness and in fear. "Paul, I thought you made a promise to me. No running away."

Paul now smiles shyly. "I didn't run. I checked out."

You snap your head up and blurt out, "What?"

"I checked out. Convinced them I could be okay and I was! I found you," Paul says proudly. He's cute sometimes. Argh! This is not the time to remember he's cute!

Still, you do feel a little pride washing through you. Paul is not a complete idiot. He's orchestrated his escape from several homes over many years; both as a foster child and as an adult. However, tracking down people, traveling from San Fran to Vegas and finding you? That's a step up. A huge step.

Paul can function.

He can function in the outside world, but as history will tell you, Paul can only function like that for so long. The world changes and he gets confused. He gets frustrated. It's one of the many reasons you put him back in an assisted living home before leaving for Vegas. He could make friends there. He could be watched over properly. He's going to have to go back.

However, you don't have the heart to shatter his illusion of freedom just yet. You unlock the car and ask, "Hungry?"

You see him smile. He knows you won't leave him here and for the moment, he's safe with you. He tosses his sole bag in the backseat, then skips over to the front passenger side. You get in the car and start it up, just to get some air flow. You're not ready to drive away yet. You sit back and take this time to really see your brother.

Paul smiles even wider at you. It hurts you to see him so happy. He thinks he's going to live with big sis. He thinks it's going to be like it was before. You don't know how you're going to tell him that he can't stay. You've done it before. You've broken his heart a million times over and you've sent him places he didn't want to go, but that doesn't make this time any easier. He just doesn't understand that where he was is the best thing for him.

You drive and say aloud, "You still like pancakes, right?"

"You know I love them, Sara," Paul says unforgivingly. "Stop being so weird. Just say I've missed you or something."

There they are. Tears. They're knocking on the door, but you can't cry now. Not yet. You choke on a sob and make a left turn. You try to stay strong and tell him, "Paul, you shouldn't have come. You know that, right?"

You see Paul shift in his seat uncomfortably. "I would've preferred an 'I missed you'."

You find a diner and pull into the lot. You cut off the car and ask, "You have paperwork on your release?"

"Yep. I told them you would want that or you wouldn't believe me," Paul smiles again. "Like it or not, you have me, Sara. I got you. Things can be normal again."

Normal. Your life has never been normal.

You instruct, "Bring those papers inside. You're right. I want to read them."

You both get out of the car. He digs in his bag for the paperwork.

His dark hair is in desperate need of trimming and he's got an overmodest, scraggly beard on his face. There was a time when you would shave that beard off. You hated it. It reminded you of Dad. It seems Paul likes keeping one now. His individuality is developing. You wonder if Paul is even the same guy, the same brother you knew all those years ago.

You breathe in deeply, then say, "Hey, Paul?"

"Yeah?" he looks up.

You smile feebly. "I did miss you."

Paul's face turns so angelic and peaceful, it crushes you. He hugs a manila folder to his chest and shakes his head, "You don't suck anymore."

You laugh through your tears. This is going to be a very long day.

---------------------------------------

Paul has an assortment of pancakes. Blueberry, chocolate chip, strawberry topping. He seems famished. Probably shouldn't surprise you. Paul made a very long trip on his own, probably without funds.

You glance down at the papers again and sigh. They are legitimate. There was a policy there you weren't aware of. The 'patients can check out after so many years and good behavior' policy. If you had known that, you wouldn't have left him there. You would've put Paul in a place where residency was a permanency. A place where check-out was allowed by both doctors and immediate family, not by the patient alone.

Then again, if it weren't for this policy, you may have elected to have never seen Paul again. Maybe Paul checking out is a sign. Fate. Maybe Paul is supposed to be here because you refused to let yourself see him.

When you look back up, you can't help but frown. At the age of 31, Paul still can't eat without getting food all over his face. Out of a habit you thought had been broken, you grab a napkin and wipe his chin and cheek. He complains.

"Sara, stop it. I can do it," he whines.

"Yeah?" you say, squinting your eyes suspiciously. "It's funny how you always say 'I can' but never do."

"I can do it," he repeats gruffly, stuffing more food in his mouth. The syrup you just wiped from his face? Replaced by more syrup. You roll your eyes at his messiness.

It's in that moment, your seemingly good breakfast turns disastrous. An old car in the lot backfires, but to anyone without trained ears, it sounds like a shotgun going off. Paul literally flies out of his seat.

Faster than you're thinking it, you jump up and tackle him to the floor. You have no choice, really. Paul likes to run. _A lot_. He runs when he's scared and you know you'll have a hell of time finding him later if he gets away from you.

He's shaking real bad and you keep him pinned to the floor and say, "Hey, that was nothing, buddy. It was nothing, okay?"

All you can hear from him is nonsense. You kiss his hair and hold on tightly.

There are many things that Paul is afraid of. The first and most frightening thing would be knives. To you, the reasons are obvious. A knife killed your father. Your mother used to wave around knives when angry; threatening and promising death to those who defied her.

The second (or maybe that's the fourth?) thing that Paul hates most is gunshots.

You don't watch movies with guns. You don't talk about guns. You pretend that guns don't exist. He hates the sound and he hates what they can do. Your dad owned a gun. Paul never liked that. You realize he won't like you either once he puts two and two together. Crime scene investigators carry guns. He's not going to like that.

Paul is wiggling and trying to escape, his groaning and moaning doing nothing to help you out. Other patrons are gathering around and they're worried. One even says, "Hey, get off him!"

Great. They think you're trying to hurt him. You look up and explain, "He's my brother, okay? He hates guns. He thought that was a gunshot."

"Is he Autistic? Does he need a doctor?"

Autistic? You wish. That actually has a name. That has a treatment. No, what's wrong with Paul is mostly psychological and partly physical. What's wrong with Paul is the result of physical damage to the human brain. It's what happens when you watch your mother kill your father.

"He's okay," you promise, noticing that he's stopped fighting you. You get up slowly and help him to his feet. He latches onto you immediately, both his arms around your neck and his head buried in your shoulder. You hug him back, but not because you want to. You hug him to hold onto him. You don't need him running off.

His body shakes a bit and you can tell he's trying not to cry. With all these strangers around, he still wants to prove he's not a crybaby. You'd hate to tell him that he already _looks_ like a crybaby.

You glance around and wish all these eyes would stop watching you. More importantly, you wish they would stop watching him. He's your brother. You don't like the attention he causes. It's not good attention.

It's in this moment you remember why having Paul around was so bothersome. You remember why you made him stay home when you went out in public. All of these eyes are just looking. You glare at the gawking crowd and say, "Hey, it's over. Get back to your regularly scheduled lives."

People return to their seats slowly, reluctantly.

A waiter walks up and you demand, "Check. Now."

The waiter pauses which only makes you angry. "I want to get my brother home. Bring me the check."

The waiter scurries off as Paul hides his face.

He's embarrassed.

You're exhausted.

---------------------------------------

Paul has no idea what to do with himself.

He stands in the doorway as you head for the kitchen. Paul and his timing. He didn't give you time to prepare. You check occasionally and make sure he's standing at the door. He still is. You begin emptying your drawers of knives. Any rational person would assume you're trying to prevent Paul from cutting himself. No, that would be normal. What you're trying to prevent is an episode. You don't want him to flashback. You don't want him to have nightmares.

You look around, wondering where to store them. Ah, you remember now. When you and Paul were living together back in Tamales Bay, you kept all the knives in a box under the sink. They were out of sight and out of mind. Paul knew never to go under there looking for anything.

Once that is done, you reenter your living room. He's still at the door.

"Paul? Remember the rule about the sink?"

"Don't look under it," he says, his voice almost robotic. Good, he remembers. You drilled that rule into his skull for nearly three years, so he should. He then looks at you and shakes his head, "I thought you lived in a house. I always dreamed you lived in a big house. Cops live in houses."

You can't help but smile. Paul dreams. He has aspirations and wishes and hopes. He dreamed you were in a big house. You look around, then smile bashfully, "Nope. Just this apartment."

You'll correct him later on you being a cop. You might also inform him that most cops live in apartments.

"Where will I sleep?" he asks. So that's why he's been standing around. He doesn't know where he fits.

You give him a sympathetic look. "Not like home, is it?" He shakes his head. You walk up and begin to remove his coat. He lets you pull the coat down off his arms. "Paul, you had to know this wouldn't be like home. My life has changed. So has yours."

He whips his head around to look at you in horror. "You don't want me to stay!"

"Paul, I didn't say that. . ." _Yet. . .._

"I should've known. You really do suck," he gripes, picking up his bag and storming off.

"Paul!" you yell after him. He runs into your room and slams the door. You roll your eyes. "That's _my_ room."

If you remember anything about Paul's temper tantrums, _your_ room will be _his_ room for at least the next four hours. Oh, what does it matter? You've been sleeping on your couch most days anyway. He can have your room.

You fall on the couch, shut your eyes and think about work. You won't find a babysitter in time, you know this. Well, maybe you could find a babysitter in time, but not one you could trust. You're not asking something to watch your dog or a tiny child. You would be asking someone to watch Paul. A man with emotional issues. A man who doesn't have the mental capacity to deal with those issues. A man who could unintentionally hurt someone and not understand why it was wrong.

You hope you can leave him here alone tonight. He'll just be asleep, maybe he'll watch television.

You can't imagine that anything will go wrong, but you've thought that before and Paul always manages to find a way to ruin what could be a perfectly good evening.

To be continued...


	3. Life

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Notes: See first chapter for all the important junk. I'm sorry if I don't reply to you all individually for the reviews. I get so behind, but know I'm truly grateful for all the reviews and comments you leave. They keep me going. Thanks to Chelsee6 and SaraLou for finding a mistake in this chapter. It has been fixed. Hopefully, I got it right this time. (crosses fingers)

**Part Three**

**Life**

"Hey, Sara?"

Warrick pokes his head into the breakroom. It's you, Catherine and Greg on a brief respite, discussing the minor details in your current case. You all stop chattering, allowing you to answer his call. "Yeah, Warrick?"

He gives you a lazy smile and you already know something is up. He rubs the back of his neck and says somewhat coyly, "Well, there's this guy on the phone asking for you. Says he hates your pillows and that he can't for the life of him understand how you sleep there at all."

You think all the color drains from your face.

Catherine is the first to raise an eyebrow at you. "Sara? There's a guy sleeping in your bed?"

"I'm jealous," Greg pouts.

So much for trying to keep Paul a secret.

You stand up and run to the phone. You wouldn't normally use this phone (nor would you allow your co-workers to listen in), but you have no choice. You have to settle Paul down or at least make sure he won't decide to go light some candles to express his rage.

Oh no. You forgot to hide your candles.

You hastily pick up the phone. "Paul? Don't touch my candles!"

"Sara, I can't sleep. Your pillows suck," he whines. You can literally hear his frown.

"I said emergencies, Paul. Emergencies," you chastise him. "This does not qualify."

"This is an emergency. How will I sleep?"

"No, no. We discussed this. Floods are emergencies. Fires are emergencies," you tell him. "_Volcanoes_ are emergencies. Less than desirable pillows? Not an emergency."

"Why aren't you home? It's night time," he complains. He already voiced his opinion on this too.

You sigh deeply. "I have a job. A full time job that is the only thing keeping you fed and housed, I might add. I told you when I would be home."

"You suck."

"You suck more," you retort, almost on automatic pilot. You grimace once you realize you said it aloud though and you hear Greg snicker behind you. Oh, for the love of anything that is holy. . .

You chance a glance over your shoulder. Warrick looks like he might bust a gut any second. Greg and Catherine's eyes glint mischievously.

You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time in the last 24 hours, then turn away from them. Speaking much more quietly into the phone now, you say, "Sleep on the couch."

"No."

"Sleep on the floor."

"If I won't sleep on the couch, what makes you think I'll sleep on the floor?" Paul responds.

You clench your teeth and mutter, "You are impossible. They are just pillows, Paul. Deal with it."

"Fine. I'll just be cranky when you get home then. You better cook me waffles to make it up to me."

Paul hangs up on you before you can reply. You gape at the phone in amazement. That little punk hung up on you! You go to slam the phone down in anger, but remember where you are. You remember who is watching you. So you simply drop it back down, turn around and see Warrick, Catherine and Greg waiting expectantly for an explanation.

When you don't give them one, Catherine speaks up first. "You suck more?"

She's grinning like a Cheshire cat. You really have to watch what you say around these people.

Greg speaks next, "If that's your boyfriend, I'd dump his sorry ass real quick."

"Yeah, Sara," Warrick agrees. "Sounds like a scarf."

You purse your lips, interested in Warrick's name for your brother. "A scarf?"

"You know, clingy? Hanger on?" Catherine clarifies.

You laugh and agree, "Well, Paul is definitely a scarf."

"Paul, hmm?" Greg says, rubbing his chin. "So, where did you meet this Paul?"

You'd like to keep up the charade of Paul the Boyfriend, but you're much too tired and in no mood to play games tonight. Even if these games make Greg insanely jealous. You half smile, "I met him at birth."

You get blank stares. You chuckle. "Paul is my brother. Not my boyfriend."

Your co-workers simply nod, their mouths forming an 'o' of understanding. It's quite obvious they want more dirt on Paul. No one here knows about your family except Grissom.

And speak of the devil, Grissom walks by and commands, "Warrick, we've got a new lead." He never pauses in his steps as he says this and is gone as quickly as he came. Warrick shrugs before following after the boss.

Okay, so that really wasn't a command of any sort, but you all know that was Grissom speak for "Hey, break it up. Warrick is busy and you should be too".

So you trail behind Catherine and Greg now, your mind consumed with Paul. He shouldn't be alone, but you have no one to watch him. Your friends are your co-workers. You all work the same schedule, plus overtime. That would mean finding someone outside your social network. A stranger. You don't like that idea very much, but do you have a choice?

"Sara?"

You snap your head up. You realize you have stopped in the middle of the hall, just thinking. Catherine stands before you, her smile more sympathetic than usual. She asks quietly, "You okay?"

"Good," you nod.

"So, this Paul . . .," Catherine begins. "He sounds. . ."

"Annoying? Irritable? Cranky?" you fill in for her.

She smiles. "Actually, I was going to say nice, but sure. He sounds like those things too."

You shove your hands in your pockets. "Paul can be nice. He's just not like other guys."

"Special needs?" Catherine guesses correctly.

"Yeah and it looks like I'll need a babysitter," you say, shaking your head. "He's not a kid, but right now, all I'm thinking about is him. And whether or not my place will still be there when I get off work. . ."

"So, this is what that phone call was about yesterday? Paul's visit wasn't planned," Catherine says, her deduction skills hitting the mark tonight.

"No," you say. "Paul just showed up. He does that."

"Sara, go home. I'll explain everything to Grissom," Catherine orders. You go to protest, but she covers your mouth with her hand. Your eyes widen some at her audacity, but then again, it has shut you up. She grins at you triumphantly. "Now, you are going home to care for Paul, no arguments. Understood?"

You nod. It's about all you can do, anyway.

"Good," Catherine says, removing her hand from your mouth. "I'll call later to check up on you, okay?"

"You don't have to. . ."

You stop your sentence midway, catching her no-nonsense stare again. You never thought Catherine would hold any kind of power over you, especially not with just a simple look. A look you previously thought only worked on the boys. Seems you were wrong.

You smile at her. "Thanks, I would appreciate that."

"Okay," Catherine nods.

You watch her walk away.

**-----------------------------------**

There's thumping. Pause. More thumping.

The next thing you hear is a creaking door and a voice say, "You're Paul, I presume?"

That voice sounds familiar. You open your sleepy eyes and focus on the image ahead of you. Paul is at the door. Paul. . .

Paul is. . .he answered the door! You jump up from the couch immediately. A little too quickly. You bump your knee on the coffee table.

"Damn it!" you curse. You nearly double over at the pain shooting up your leg.

"Here she is," Paul says unceremoniously, pointing at you and letting Catherine inside. You think your ears are burning.

"Thank you, Paul," Catherine says with a smile. She then looks at you. "I'm beginning to think you need Paul more than he needs you."

She thinks she's a riot sometimes, doesn't she?

You limp over to her. "So, uh, I wasn't aware you knew where I lived."

"I didn't. I asked Grissom," she says, removing her jacket. Hmm. Removal of the jacket. So, she plans on staying a while. Interesting. She's still talking, you realize. You better tune back in.

"I tried calling and you didn't answer. I told you I would call."

You wince. "Oh, right. Sorry. I forgot."

"Yeah, your phone was making this awful noise," Paul says casually, as if you wouldn't care to know your phone had been ringing at all. "I didn't want to wake you though."

It's only been two days and your patience with Paul is wearing thin. You try to stay calm, "Hey, next time that 'awful noise' goes off, wake me up. I was expecting her call."

"Don't worry about it. I'm here now," Catherine shrugs it off, then points at your knee. "You need some ice for that?"

"I'll be fine," you tell her, forcing a smile. "Doesn't hurt anymore anyway."

"Who are you?" Paul asks, surprising you. You thought he had retreated to your bedroom by now. That's usually standard operating procedure for Paul when a stranger knocks on the door. Then again, Paul never used to answer the door without getting you first. Paul is growing up and that scares you. That scares you a lot.

"Who are you?" he repeats, when neither you or Catherine answer. He's hiding out in the kitchen threshold, scratching his chin nervously.

"This is Catherine," you answer.

"I know her name, she told me," Paul says, slightly irritated. "I mean, who is she? What is she?"

Catherine glances at you for help. You lean over and clarify, "He wants to know what you mean to me. He's very protective of me. He wants to make sure the people in my life care about me."

"Oh," Catherine responds.

You smile, knowing exactly what Catherine means by that 'oh'. 'Oh', as in, 'Oh, we're barely friends and this is Catherine's first house call ever'.

You repeat, "Oh."

After a second of thinking it over, Catherine has the answer.

"We work very closely together," Catherine explains to Paul. "Close enough that we entrust one another with our lives."

Oh, good one. Score points for Cath. You see the answer satisfies Paul and quite frankly, you're satisfied as well. Cath didn't outright lie just for the sake of saving face. She could've said you two were the best of friends, sharing every aspect of your lives together just to appease Paul. If she had said something like that, however, you probably would've laughed out loud and ruined the illusion.

Paul slinks his way down the hall and toward your room without another word. He does glance back at Catherine, though, before completely shutting the door. The look he gives her is. . .odd. You're not quite sure how to describe it.

When you look at Catherine, you see her smiling at you. You chuckle nervously. "What?"

"Nothing, just didn't know you had a brother, that's all," Catherine says, shaking her head. "There's a lot I don't know about you."

You shrug, walking gingerly toward the kitchen. Your knee still hurts, despite what you said. "Well, Cath, I am an open book. You just choose not to read."

"Oh, don't give me that," she scoffs, following you. "You're about as guarded as they come, Sara. Why is that?"

You reach into the fridge and pull out the orange juice. You go to pour yourself a glass, then rethink that and grab a glass for her as well. It's not often you have guests. You're still not sure why she decided to stick around either. A quick glance in to see you weren't dead would've sufficed, but she obviously wants more than that.

As you serve up the drinks, you ignore her question and ask one of your own, "So, why are you here, Cath? Needed to see if I really had a brother?"

You push her glass toward her. She doesn't move to take it.

"C'mon, Sara," Catherine says, clearly offended. Okay, so she wasn't here to see if you lied about Paul.

You take a long sip of your juice, considering her with wary eyes. So, this was just a normal house call then? No agenda?

"Hey," she says to you, her tone somewhat heavy and regretful. She finally accepts the glass of juice and sips on it herself. When she looks at you again, she speaks. "I was worried, okay? I told you I would call and when you didn't answer, I took it upon myself to stop by. I know what it's like to live with family, okay? You care deeply for them, but they also have this uncanny ability to drive you absolutely insane. I get that too. Honestly, if my mother didn't go home on occasion, I'd swear she still lives with me."

Her candor does crack a smile on your face.

"Except your mom and Lindsay aren't mental," you sigh. "Paul just never healed. . .he never got better."

Catherine nods. You have a feeling she would like to ask more. Maybe see if you would elaborate on what it is Paul never healed from. She doesn't. Instead, she surprises you with a proposition.

"Sara, I was thinking about what you said. About you needing a babysitter."

"Yeah?" you say, intrigued.

"Why don't you drop Paul off at my house before shift? My mom and Lindsey are home then. He won't be by himself. He'll get dinner, maybe a bed time story. You can pick him up in the morning after work."

"Seriously?" you ask, nearly sputtering on your drink. You were expecting her to recommend a nanny service or something.

"Yeah, seriously," she nods.

You meet Catherine's eyes again and see her offer is sincere. So, where is this generosity coming from?

Then again, why should you care? This is the perfect solution. The Willows family are no strangers.

You do know Lindsey. She's a bit rough around the edges, just like her mom, but she's grown to be more responsible in the last year. She won't have to change diapers or anything like that. Paul just needs supervision, not a nanny.

Still. . . You'd really hate to shove Paul off on Lindsey, no matter how tempting the idea.

"I don't know, Cath," you sigh. "Paul hates being looked after as it is. Lindsay is years younger than him and he might feel even more inferior than he already does if I tell him a 13-year-old is going to babysit him."

"No, I won't. You don't know me."

You see Paul leaning in the threshold of the kitchen again and he looks only mildly perturbed with you and your assumptions. He scratches at his chin again and says, "I'd like to stay at Catherine's house. I can make friends. I don't have friends in Vegas."

You can't help but retort, "Did you have friends back home?"

Even Catherine flinches at your harsh remark. Paul is hurt, but fires back nonetheless. "Not like I see your pals lining up at the door! Catherine doesn't even look comfortable here."

No. No she doesn't.

You scowl now, advancing toward Paul, your hand raised to grab his arm. "If you hadn't noticed, most of the people who ever visit me when you're around are never comfortable, Paul. Maybe you should consider that maybe it's _you_ causing the discomfort."

"Just admit it, Sara," Paul backs up, slapping at your hand to keep you back. "You're just as crazy as I am. All you've got is me. It's just me. . ."

"I am not crazy," you say quietly, glaring at Paul. You begin to shout that phrase again, but Catherine stands up. You had forgotten she was even here.

Holding up her hands, she demands, "Okay, that's enough!"

Both you and Paul stop. You feel a bile in your throat, tears in your eyes. You blink those away and turn away from your brother. You're face to face with Catherine.

"Sara, sit down."

You shake your head, "Catherine, you will not march in here and. . ."

"I said sit down, Sara!" Catherine repeats, her voice just a tiny bit louder and much more demanding. She turns to Paul and instructs, "Oh no, don't hide in that room. You too. Over here."

Paul glances at you, not believing this strange woman has the chutzpah to order him around. Well, you know Catherine and this is what she does. Somehow, her actions are completely acceptable and irrefutable.

Inner sarcasm notwithstanding, you both do as she says, lumbering over to the barstools like wounded children. She sits in the last empty barstool around the island and shifts her eyes between the two of you. "Okay, if I had any doubts before, I can now safely say that you're both 100 related."

You shut your eyes and beg, "Could you please not be a smartass here?"

"Can you two act like adults for more then a millisecond?" she counters.

Adults. You and Paul were never adults, you think. Your relationship had always worked on the level of third graders. You fight, you play, you laugh and love. It doesn't get much deeper than that because that's all you both know. To be adult with one another is a foreign concept, an impossible task.

Something about Paul turns you into a bratty, know-it-all child.

"Contrary to what Paul would like you to think, he is a ten year old boy in the body of a thirty-one year old man," you inform Catherine, pointing at Paul. He slaps your hand in response. "There is no adult here."

"No hitting," Catherine scolds Paul. He flinches, but folds his arms anyway. She then looks at you, "I'm not seeing any better behavior from you, Sara. Whatever is going on, the least you two can do is talk about it."

No, your behavior is no better. Frankly, you're not sure you know any other way when it comes to Paul.

"Cath, we don't need a mediator," you grumble.

"Nothing to talk about," Paul agrees with a shrug. "She doesn't want me here. I'm going back, I know I am."

"Going back?" Catherine repeats. "Where? Where is he going back to?"

You speak up before Paul does, "Catherine, that's between Paul and I. Look, I think it would be best for you to go."

"No," she shakes her head.

"What?" you say, sitting up straighter. She's a little more bold than usual today.

"You heard me," she says, standing up. You would stand too, but what can you say? She's in. You don't know how, but she's in your mind or your heart or just you. You have a good feeling you won't have the strength to kick her out either. She points at you, "I want to talk to you alone. Paul, you think you can occupy yourself for a few minutes?"

Paul looks at you again. You can see Catherine's motherly tone has cast a spell on him as well. He whispers, "You're in trouble. . . "

"Go," you tell him sternly and he does. He slinks down the hall to your room and shuts the door. You stand up and repeat, "Catherine, please just go. He's my brother, my problem."

"But that's just it, Sara! You're looking at this like it's a problem!" Catherine argues.

You breathe in deeply, frustrated. "And what would you call it?"

Her arms go limp at her sides. She gives you a somewhat helpless look as she answers, "Life, Sara. I call it life."

Life.

You glance toward your bedroom door. It's closed. You wonder if he's crying now. If he is, it's all your fault.

You look at her, your voice softer now. "He was living in San Francisco before he showed up. Checked himself out of an assisted living home and found his way to Vegas. I can't even count how many times Paul has escaped from a good environment, a good home. He doesn't realize what's best for him."

"And you know what's best, Sara?" Catherine asks, her tone bordering sarcastic.

Now you're angry again.

"I know him. Paul is my brother and I had to live with him most of my life. I had to take him in when other foster families couldn't handle him. He's. . .I do know him, it's just now, he's different. There's something different about him and I'm not sure what to do about it."

Catherine squints her eyes in thought, then says, "Maybe he's not the one who's changed."

You look up at her again, her statement probably more true than you would like to admit. You're the one who has changed. Maybe it's Paul who doesn't recognize you.

"He looks at me sometimes," you say quietly. "Like he doesn't understand me. He doesn't understand why this is hard for me."

Catherine reaches out to you, tentatively intertwining her fingers with yours. She gives a little squeeze of reassurance and says, "Did you ever consider that this is hard for him? He's not a problem or a puzzle that you need to solve, Sara. He's your brother."

You lower your eyes, shame creeping throughout your body. Irritatingly enough, Catherine is right.

"He's a guy, Sara. I know men and I don't care if Paul is mentally ill or unstable or whatever," Catherine says. "He's a guy and I'm sure it took a lot of pride swallowing for him to find you and ask for your help. He could've gone anywhere, but he looked for you."

"I can't help him anymore," you admit.

Catherine's eyes twinkle then. She asks coyly, "Was that Sara speak for 'I need help'?"

You chuckle despite yourself and say, "Yeah, I guess that was."

To be continued. . .


	4. Knives

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Notes: See first chapter for important junk. Just throwing out there, I made stuff up in this chapter, mostly related to schools and educational systems. Excuse my ignorance. I had this little "separator" that this editor didn't accept the symbols for, so hopefully there's gonna be this horizontal line indicating where a flashback begins and ends. If not, the flashback is written in the third person as opposed to the rest of the story. Also can't thank you enough for the feedback. Hope you enjoy.

**Borderline**

by e-dog

**Part Four**

**Knives**

* * *

He had ceased being angry. He was just confused. Hurt. 

Frankly, he wasn't sure why he was here anymore. Nothing that happened was his fault, was it? He bit at his nails, tears on the brink of falling from his eyes. Maybe. . .maybe it was his fault. Maybe it was. His lips quivered at the thought. He just couldn't seem to get anything right!

Why? Why couldn't he get anything right?

"I want Sara," he repeated quietly. "I want Sara. I want Sara."

He was curled up in the chair, the seat too small for his lanky body. Across from him was a familiar desk. Behind that desk was a person of authority, or at least they claimed to be. This adult showcased very little self worth. A lot of hot air, no heart. Sara had always told him that adults who deal with children should have heart. That Mom and Dad didn't have heart.

"I want Sara."

"We called her," the principal informed him, looking more at his paperwork and less at the young man before him.

That young man; he had ceased being angry. He was just confused. Hurt. He shifted in his seat, but even that subtle movement didn't go unnoticed.

"Stay still, you little pain in the ass," a school security guard mumbled behind him. "I don't want to have to restrain you again."

"You lay another finger on him and we'll sue."

"Sara!" he grinned triumphantly. He hopped up and ran up to her immediately. He hugged her tightly to him and said over and over, "Sorry. So sorry..."

"I know, buddy," Sara whispered in his hair, hugging him back. She looked at the principal. "You said Paul would be okay in the Special Needs classroom. That he would be away from the other children."

"And I told you that all the students, special needs or not, all share the same cafeteria," the principal sneered. He stood and pointed at Paul with an accusing finger. "Your brother couldn't stay in his seat. He picked the fight."

"I seriously doubt that," Sara said, her voice even. Principal Jones was like every other school official she had been privy to meet. He talked to her like she was a child. He treated her differently because she was Paul's sister, not Paul's parent. Despite Jones' lack of respect, the last thing she needed was to display the infamous Sidle Fury. The death of her father was no secret in these parts. The crime her mother committed wasn't either. Everyone who was somebody knew about that; knew about her brother. It seemed no matter where she put Paul, that cursed night followed him everywhere.

"Paul only reacts, he doesn't initiate, Mr. Jones. I've explained this time and again. You spend more time waiting for Paul to mess up than you do on your job as a leader in this school."

Jones took the insult in stride.

"He's a grown man and he can't keep to himself," Principal Jones argued. "I'm sorry, but I told you what would happen if Paul was involved in another fight. I can't have a twenty-something man beating up teenaged boys!"

"Mr. Jones, you can't do this," Sara nearly pleaded. "Paul may be 21, but he has a disorder that not even our doctors can pinpoint. One day it's anxiety, the next it's obsessive compulsive disorder. Look. He only has two years of high school left. He can't survive in this world without at least his diploma. Just give him . . ."

"No more chances. I've already contacted the school board and I'm sure they'll call back and agree that Paul Sidle has to go," Principal Jones said defiantly. "We pulled strings because of his age and because of your family history, but I think it's time you considered other methods of education for your brother."

"Other methods? Are you serious?" Sara said incredulously.

"Sara, what's going on?" Paul asked tentatively, finally registering that things weren't happening in his favor. Not this time. "James hit me first. Why am I here? I don't understand."

Paul watched his sister. He could see her eyes growing sad.

"I know you don't understand," Sara sighed, hugging him. "We have to go, Paul. Time to go home."

* * *

You think you probably should've fought the school board. You understand the educational system better now than you did back then. You should've fought. If you had forced them to take Paul, maybe conditions for special needs students would have improved. Maybe the school system would've made better accommodations for people like Paul in the future. 

You think you should've fought harder for Paul.

"Sara?"

Catherine is still here, you realize. How did you end up here?

You both sit on the couch in awkward silence. You have this uncontrollable urge to laugh and you do. You can't help it, really. It's kinda funny. This whole thing is kinda funny.

"Sara?" Catherine says again.

You shake your head, then explain. "You just reprimanded both my brother and I. . .like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like we were children. If our mother was anything like you, things would have been a helluva lot different. Paul would be different."

Catherine nods slowly.

She turns to look at you and says, "I guess I should ask what Lindsey will have to deal with before I really commit."

You look at her, surprised. "You still want Lindsey to watch Paul? After all that?"

"Sara, all I saw was two siblings having a disagreement," she says with a small smile. "Now tell me. There's obviously more to Paul than meets the eye."

You have to ask again, "Are you sure?"

"Sara. . ."

"Okay, okay," you sigh, giving in. "Um, no knives. He hates them. He'll freak out if he sees them. Put them under your sink. He'll know not to go under there."

Catherine nods again. Her next question is obvious. "Why no knives?"

You feel your heart clamp up, like it's in a vice. You don't like talking about home. You don't like talking about Mom or Dad. You had a hard enough time explaining it to Grissom, but now Catherine has offered to let Paul stay in her house. There's no way for you to just gloss over this like some minor detail. You take a deep breath.

"He just looks so much like him," you say aloud. You've surprised yourself, saying that. Glancing at Catherine, you see her confusion. You rub your hands together and repeat, "It's like looking at him sometimes."

"Looking at who?" Catherine prods. Her patience is astounding you at this point.

You swallow hard. "He looks like my Dad, Catherine. Paul looks so much like him and that scares me."

"Sooo, this is about your father?" Catherine says, squinting her eyes. You nod. "Forgive me for not understanding Sara, but it was only today I learned of your brother. What does your father have to do with anything?"

"He hurt us."

Okay, that wasn't your voice. You turn around, see Paul in the doorway of your bedroom. He's looking at you. Looking at you with Dad's eyes, but his mouth is too thin. It's too childlike and not like Dad's at all. The eyes, though. They remind you of Dad and it takes everything to hold his gaze. You clear your throat and ask, "You okay, Paul?"

"Fine," he nods, then shuts the door again.

Paul and Dad. Dad and Paul. It was their relationship that damaged both you and your brother. You; forced to sit on the sidelines, watching Dad take out his anger on your family. You; too weak and too scared to stand up for Paul, for your mother, for yourself. Paul; too young and too broken to understand that was happening was wrong.

You finally return your gaze to the woman sitting next to you and catch some recognition cross Catherine's face.

She whispers, "Abuse?"

"Yeah," you whisper. "They thought punishing a child physically was the only way to get a child to learn. Dad. . .he. . . cracked a bat across Paul's head. Dad told the doctors that Paul fell out of a tree. Brain damage was inevitable."

Catherine gasps, but doesn't say anything. She probably isn't sure what to say. You don't blame her for her silence. Your family is royally messed up. After tonight, you'd expect her to leave and forget she ever met you or Paul, but the thought of her forgetting you aches more than it should. Her presence means more to you than ever previously imagined. How Catherine Willows went from work rival, to scolding mother, to comforting friend is beyond you, but maybe the reasons don't matter. What matters is that you have someone here now.

Someone who might understand, who may stay with you after all is said and done.

Your surroundings meld into nothingness around you. You speak quietly, as if in a trance. "Paul survived. He just never fully recovered. Then. . .then we both saw something we shouldn't have. It's why I hide the knives."

You find yourself looking at anything but Catherine. You wipe at your eyes, the tears foreseeable. You can never think about those days and keep from crying. Talking only makes it worse.

"My mom stabbed my dad to death. She killed him," you say in one breath. You feel Catherine tighten her hold on your hand in response. When did she start holding your hand?

"Dad started taking out his anger on her, the older we got. Naturally, she fought back. Never thought she would. . ."

Your voice dies out. You remember how you reacted that night. All you could do was stand there, watching your mother cry about what she had done. She was crying, but you knew she wasn't sorry. She was glad Dad was gone and you knew it.

Knowing she was happy in her decision to kill didn't really bother you that much. It was the happiness that coursed through your veins that scared you most. There was not one damn shred of remorse in your bones and for one long moment in time, both you and your mother were in complete harmony. You were both glad that Dad was gone. It's that memory, that feeling of happiness that's always made you question yourself. Is there a murder gene? Could you kill someone out of rage and then be happy you did it?

Maybe you could. The blood spatter on the walls all but proved how ruthless the killing was, how passionate. Years later, you found yourself mortified by your feelings.

In all that, you barely remembered Paul. You didn't wonder how he felt. You didn't wonder what he thought. All you can remember is little Paul at your legs just bawling his eyes out, clutching onto you with all he had left. All you could do was stand there. You can't believe how selfish you were, how selfish you still are.

"Sara?" Catherine calls out to you.

You snap back to the present and finish your story, "Ever since then, the sight of knives has driven Paul crazy. He doesn't want to see them. He can't. . ."

"I'll be sure to stress the importance of that to Lindsey. I promise, Sara. Paul will be in good hands," Catherine reassures. She adds, "I'm sorry the two of you had to endure that at such a young age."

"Well, it happened. It's over," you shrug, sniffling a bit and wiping your eyes dry. You smile bashfully, "I worry about him. I don't want you to think I'm shoving him off on you."

"Hey, I offered, it's okay," Catherine smiles softly.

You consider her for a moment, then ask, "Why did you offer?"

Catherine doesn't take your question as an insult this time. Instead, she explains, "Your suspension. It made me reconsider how we act around each, the way we talk to one another. It got me thinking that maybe our squabble would have never happened had I taken the time to ask."

You just nod. No one really takes the time to ask anymore, do they? You accused Paul of running away before asking why he showed up in the first place. The patrons at the diner assumed you were hurting Paul. They didn't ask if everything was okay. You live in a world where asking is a nuisance and accusation is simple. Point the finger and yell. To hell with the damages.

"Sara?"

You look up just in time to feel the pad of Catherine's thumb wipe a tear off your cheek. The gentle gesture opens the floodgates. Your body shakes as you try to control the waves of hurt.

Life really sucks sometimes, you think. It just really, really sucks. You get hurt and you continue to hurt and you do everything in your power to control that hurt. You find that now, you have no control. The hurt controls you.

You stand up from the couch to escape, to give yourself time to pull it together. Catherine doesn't let you.

"Hey, hey. C'mere," Catherine coos, following you and pulling you into her arms. Your arms hang limply at your sides, while she smothers you with a warmth and affection you've never known before. When was the last time anyone hugged you like this? Or maybe you don't remember because no one ever has. Catherine whispers against your hair, "Sara, it's okay. You don't have to do this alone."

"I don't need help," you mumble, keeping your arms at your side. You try to pull back. You're embarrassed. You want to stop crying. You feel foolish.

"Hey, you listen to me," Catherine orders. Her hand worms its way into your hair, holding onto you tightly. She won't let you get away. She says firmly, "A child should never have to witness what you have. A child needs their parents, but don't think for a second you deserved what life threw at you. I want to help, if I can, but you have to let me."

She sounds angry. Angry to hear what happened to you, perhaps. Angry that you would rather do this alone. Thing is, you've been doing this alone most of your life and you've been okay.

Question is, will you be okay now?

"I don't know how," you whisper.

She pulls back enough to see your tear stained face. She smiles softly, "You can start by hugging me back."

"Catherine. . .I. .."

"Sara, please, don't piss me off by over thinking this. I'm going out on a limb here," Catherine halfway teases.

So you don't think. You do as she says and you hug her back. You grasp the fabric of her blouse, just to hold onto something and she tightens the embrace. You rest your chin on her shoulder, breathe in her scent and feel yourself suddenly shrouded in safety.

You thought she would leave after learning about your past. You thought she would be disgusted with your behavior, with how you treated Paul. You thought too much and all those thoughts were wrong. Catherine is not the woman you once thought she was.

You believe her when she says Paul will be okay. You believe that you can get through this, with her help.

It feels good to know that you believe in anything at all.

Paul emerges from your room after your 'chat' with Catherine. He hangs back, not wanting to get too close to you. You hate seeing him like this. You hate that he's mad with you.

You ran away from Paul, your problems, everything and started anew in Vegas. You think Paul came here to do that too. He was just following in big sister's footsteps.

The more you think about it, the more you don't want to deprive him of the chance.

"Paul, what Catherine is offering is no small matter," you tell him. He nods to show he's listening. "You have to promise to be on your best behavior, okay?"

His face lights up. "You mean, I could stay here with you? I don't have to go back?"

You glance at Catherine with uncertainty. She doesn't give you any audible or visible clue as to what to do, however. It is both you and your brother's decision after all and she recognizes that. You look at Paul and half smile, "You can stay, but remember, this is on a trial basis. You. . ."

Paul doesn't let you finish. He rushes toward you and embraces you tightly. He even lands a sloppy kiss on your cheek. "You're the best! I won't mess up! I'll stay here and clean and draw and be quiet and everything!"

"Okay, okay, calm down," you tell him, squinting every time his beard brushes against your face. You really need to shave that monster off.

He lets you go and turns to Catherine. "I . . .I want to say I'm not crazy or anything. I'll be okay around Lindsey."

You can't help but laugh. "Uh, Paul? That's not how you reassure someone you're not crazy."

"I don't think you're crazy, Paul," Catherine says as she stands up. "I know you're Sara's brother. If you are anything like her, than I have nothing to worry about."

You feel a light blush color your cheeks. Catherine just complimented you. That's weird, but it's a welcomed weird.

Paul nods eagerly. "Well, we have the same nose. We're a lot alike in a lot of different ways."

Before Paul can list how much you two are alike and/or embarrass you any further, you interrupt. "Hey, bud. Why don't you get your stuff together for tonight. Pack things like you would for a sleepover, okay?"

Paul seems disappointed he can no longer talk to Catherine, but he humbly obeys your request to leave. He returns to your bedroom, his gait a bit more lively and a bit more carefree. He's happy again and you feel happier too.

You catch Catherine studying you and it unnerves you a bit. Those eyes hold a power you can't name. You shift on your feet uncomfortably and say, "What?"

She smiles, then says softly, "He's right. You do have the same nose."

To be continued. . .


	5. Morning

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Notes: Thank you so much for the comments and feedback! This chapter is about 2,000 words longer than previous chapter lengths, just so you know. I labored over this, worried about characterization and other little things. I hope it's sufficient. Enjoy!

**Part Five**

**Morning**

* * *

She often wondered what categorized someone as 'crazy'.

What exactly did it mean? Most importantly, is that how her brother should truly be described? Should she call him crazy?

She could see him crying and could almost imagine him foaming at the mouth, but in reality, there was nothing but tears and anguish. He had never 'gone off the deep end' or 'lost his marbles'. He cried and whined and begged and occasionally threw things.

No, she could never really call her brother 'crazy', or label him as such. However, after seeing several psychologists and no hope for a proper treatment, pronouncing her brother 'crazy' was simply a last resort.

"Sara! You can't leave me here!"

He stood in the bedroom, with its stark white walls, bed and floor. He didn't like it here. He didn't want to be here, but Sara had given him no choice whatsoever in the matter.

She was leaving him. She was leaving him here.

She said she had to, for a new job that was far away. It was too important to pass up, she said. Well, he wasn't so sure about any of what she was saying. She was leaving him and he feared it wasn't because of this job, but to get away from him. She wanted to get away from him.

"Sara, please," he cried. He had been crying for hours, it felt like. He grabbed her arm again, pulled her close. "Please, I don't want to stay here. I want to go with you."

"Paul, don't make this harder. We talked about why you can't go," Sara said.

Why? She never could tell him why, at least not in simple terms. She was just leaving him.

He looked at her. She was crying too, he noticed.

* * *

Paul always reacted.

He flipped out the day you left for Vegas. It was the only time you can really remember Paul acting 'crazy' and fulfilling every sense of the word.

You ripped yourself from his arms, said goodbye and just as you opened the door, he tackled you to the ground. His arm was jammed into your windpipe as he held you down. He didn't know. You know he didn't mean to choke you. He was upset, that's all.

He screamed for you, he screamed at you. It was the only time he had truly flipped his lid and you were suffocating in his grasp. You couldn't yell at him. He didn't know what he was doing.

You know he didn't understand, but the staff didn't see it that way. Your brother was just crazy. He always was.

Nurses flew in from all directions. He was stabbed with a needle, a sedative you hoped. He was pulled off of you and carried back into his room. You just watched in dumb fascination. Every fiber in your being commanded that you "protect him", but you didn't. You just knew leaving him there was best. You just couldn't take care of him anymore and this new opportunity in Vegas could not be passed up.

You just needed a life that was your own. Was that too much to ask? To have your own life separate from Paul? You had hoped Paul would want one of his own too. To have his own life.

Only now, you look back on that day and realize your life was always meant to be intertwined with Paul's. From the moment your mother went berserk and stabbed your father, he was your responsibility. Why? Because Paul had no one else but you. You had no right to abandon him.

It was just another time when you should've fought for Paul, another time you only thought of yourself. You were just so weak. So damn weak and afraid. Needless to say, that fear grips you now.

Paul stayed the night at Catherine's while you worked. There are differences between now and then, of course. Leaving him alone with a co-worker's daughter is quite different than leaving him alone in a mental hospital. Differences aside, you still feel fear. You feel the same uncertainty. While you may have bared your soul to Catherine about your family history, the relationship you now share with her is still fragile. It's scary.

Crazy. No, you don't think Paul is crazy. You may have once believed it to be so, but your fingers were crossed behind your back while you thought it. If anyone is crazy, it's you. You; with your investigator career and 'justice for all' mantra. You; waiting for those domestic abuse cases to just show up on your desk. You; ready to wring the necks of those awful men. Men like your father who have no respect for young life. You're the crazy one.

What did you think Vegas would give you? Did you think that maybe helping others would help redeem yourself? That you could forgive yourself for leaving Paul behind?

Vegas.

An unusually crisp, cool morning for Vegas, you think. A chilled sun follows you as you drive, destination something other than your apartment for the first time in years. It's time to pick up Paul.

You pull into Catherine's driveway, hesitant to cut the engine. You worked a little overtime today, on purpose. Anything to avoid leaving work at the same time as Catherine. Anything to avoid the anxiety of following Catherine home, following Catherine into her house. You were avoiding the inevitable, you guess. Avoiding the potential disaster of Paul's first night staying with both Lily and Lindsey.

On the bright side, no one has bothered to ring your cell. No one has left dire messages of doom and despair in your voicemail. It's quite safe to assume that Paul had a smooth night, that nothing happened.

Then your cell phone rings, scaring the shit out of you.

"Holy hell," you jump, now noticing how tense you are. You hastily grab the offending device and answer tentatively. "Hello?"

"You gonna come inside or sit out there all day?"

"Uh. . .," you say dumbly, looking up and out the window of your car. Catherine is standing in her front doorway, casually holding her home phone and giving you a curious look. You hang up your phone, turn off your car and get out. You stand by your car, still unsure about entering Catherine's home.

"So, everything went okay?"

Catherine's expression is one of deep affection. "Why don't you come inside? See for yourself?"

You swallow hard, your feet like deadweight as you push your way toward her front door. She steps aside as you enter and you're greeted with an unlikely sight.

Paul and Lindsey curled up on the couch, the light from the television bouncing off their faces. Your eyes sting lightly as you watch them and a slight nudge from Catherine brings you out of your reverie. You look at her and whisper, "He's asleep? He slept through the night?"

"Mom told me he couldn't fall asleep upstairs. Linds brought him down here and they've been sleep ever since. Didn't have the heart to wake them," she admits, then tugs on your arm so you'll follow her to the kitchen. There's coffee in a pot and she doesn't hesitate to pour you a cup.

Pouring coffee only suggests she would like you to stay a while. She might even want to talk. What you would talk about, you have no idea. She wants you to stay.

Well, you don't want to stay or talk or drink coffee. You want to grab Paul and go home.

You watch her prepare your drink. No cream. Two scoops of sugar. Is it weird that your heart still soars when Catherine makes your coffee just right?

You accept the coffee (because it would be rude not to) and you try to think of any reason that will get you home that much faster.

"Maybe we should discuss compensation," you suggest. Pay her so you can get the hell home. Yeah, that's a good idea.

"I told you, Sara. This babysitting service is free," Catherine says. She flashes you a smile full of teeth as she jokes, "Besides, I know how much money you make."

"You do?" you say meekly. Your humbleness prompts her laughter. You shake your head, then insist. "Cath, I can't . . .I have to pay you for this. It doesn't feel right if I don't."

"Okay, how about this," Catherine says, turning toward you and leaning back on her kitchen counter. "If Paul breaks a window, you can pay me to replace that."

You squint your eyes thoughtfully. "Just pay you for damages as they happen?"

"_If_ they happen," she corrects you. "That's it. I'm not asking for a weekly check from you, Sara. I'm helping you out. I want to do this for you."

You still can't figure out why Catherine Willows would want to help you with anything, but she has been making strives for a truce. These most recent attempts the most sincere, the most generous. She really wants you to be friends. Why can't you accept that? She wants to be friends. Get on the ball already, Sara! Just accept she wants to be your friend.

But why you? Why now? You've wondered often in the last few days if this is all a pity party and the host is Catherine. You look up from your coffee.

Catherine has returned to washing dishes. Hmph. Okay, so money talk is over. Your coffee is still hot and the mug is still in your hands and you're still here. You thought you would grab Paul and go home. You didn't think you'd stay for more than five minutes.

"Doesn't Lindsey have to get up soon? For school?"

"It's Sunday, Sara," Catherine says, her amusement evident.

"Right," you mutter, sipping more coffee. You never were good at remembering what day it was. Being a hopeless workaholic will do that.

"You thought my house would be going up in flames by now," Catherine deduces finally.

You smile sheepishly. "Uh, yeah."

"Well, I'm happy to inform you there should be no worrying about that," she says.

You squint your eyes. "Why?"

"I talked to Paul, about the knives. Just after you dropped him off last night before shift," Catherine tells you.

You look up from your mug, curiously afraid.

She continues, "I knew you were nervous about it, and frankly, Lindsey was too. So I talked to him about it." Then she pauses, looking suddenly unsure. "Did I overstep?"

"Overstep?" you repeat. You shake your head. "Uh, no. Not at all. I wish I had known you were still uncertain about the whole knife thing. We could've figured out something else or found someone else to watch him. . ."

"Sara, it's okay. I mean, Paul is okay around knives."

This stops you. You say, "He's what?"

Catherine smiles now. "He's okay around them. When we talked, he told me about the therapy he went through. His progress was so good, the nurses eventually allowed him in the kitchen. He helped prepare the meals with the other cooks. No incidents."

Paul never told you that. Of course, you never bothered to ask either. Then again, how could you ask? _Oh, hey. Paul. That mental hospital I placed you in (that you absolutely hated, by the way). How was that and what did you learn? _

"Really?" you say. "No incidents?"

"I didn't have reason to believe he lied," Catherine shrugs. "I asked if he would help prepare my lunch, just to see. He cut the tomatoes for my sandwich."

You glance over your shoulder, toward the family room where Lindsey and Paul still rest. Paul cut tomatoes and didn't freak out? Paul Sidle? Your supposedly crazy brother?

You can't remember a time when Paul didn't freak out at the sight of a knife. You could literally see the playback of your father's murder in Paul's eyes whenever there was mention of the wounding utensil.

You return your gaze to Catherine's and feel relief wash through you. You've recently had regrets about leaving Paul at that mental hospital, but maybe his living there wasn't a complete waste of time or energy. They managed to rehabilitate him in some fashion.

Paul can function. He can.

You admit to her, "I never thought to ask him about that. . .I just assumed."

"Maybe it's time you stopped assuming,," Catherine says, her tone soft and not scolding in the least.

"Maybe you're right," you nod. Let's face facts. Paul is five years older. He's grown.

When did that happen, you wonder. When did Paul grow up?

Well, he grew up without you. Regret worms into your heart and soul as it dawns on you that Paul grew up without you. You left him in Tamales Bay and he grew up without you.

Absorbed in your coffee and thoughts of Paul, you don't notice that your jacket is being pulled from your shoulders until the sleeves are halfway down your arms. You glance toward your elbow, a lithesome hand gripping your jacket, helping you out of it. You allow Catherine to remove your coat, then turn to face her.

Her eyes twinkle at you (you think) as she says, "Stay a while."

How could you say no? She disappears to hang your jacket in one of her closets. Your jacket. In her closet. Her home. Stay a while in Catherine's home with Paul and Lindsey sleeping on the couch. Your stomach churns a bit and you know it has nothing to do with coffee. Now it's your turn to freak out.

You stand, suddenly, coffee still in hand. It's time to escape. Grab Paul and go home. You like it too much here, too much for your own good. Good things don't last in your world, never have. You have to end this now, before it hurts too much to leave.

Unfortunately, your awesome gift of grace and agility bumps you into Catherine just as she reenters the kitchen. Coffee goes everywhere, including down the front of her blouse and all over your shoes. You mumble, "Shit. . ."

"Whoa," Catherine jumps back, futilely wiping at her front.

You shake your head, smiling like an idiot. "Sorry."

"It's okay," she says, stepping around you and finding a towel. You both know the stain will set before she can do anything about it, but she wipes anyway, just to get dry. As you stand there foolishly, she asks, "Going somewhere?"

Busted. You shake your head, "Uh, no. Not going anywhere."

"I dunno. Looked like you were trying to bolt," Catherine says knowingly. "Let me guess. You were gonna leave Paul here in your haste to get out?"

"I would've remembered him," you retort, then clamp your mouth shut. Damn it. How did you walk into that?

"I knew it," Catherine huffs. "You wanted to leave!"

"No," you say, voice strained. Catherine merely glares and you crumble. "Yes. I wanted to go, but obviously the forces of nature are deterring my plans."

"Sara." Your name leaves her lips in a puff of amusement. The laughter in her voice only makes you that more apprehensive and bashful. She finds this funny! No. She finds _you_ funny, probably always has. Let's face it. You've given her plenty of moments, plenty of reasons to tease you. Can't forget the day she caught you stirring your coffee with a pencil, can we?

"Sara, Sara, Sara," she repeats, walking up to you. Your gaze shifts to her, catching that gleam in her eyes again.

"What?" you finally say. Stop saying my name like that, you almost add.

"What are you afraid of?" she asks.

"Afraid?" you repeat, eyebrow rising some.

"I'm not a mind reader, you know. If there's something I can do to make you more comfortable here, let me know. I know this is weird, okay? A week ago, we weren't even amiable acquaintances and now, my daughter is babysitting your brother. It's weird, okay?"

You nod fervently. "Yeah, weird. It's weird."

"And I meant what I said, before your brother entered the picture. I think it's important that we be friends, that we get along."

"I totally agree," you nod again.

Catherine pauses. "You do? I mean, you want to be friends?"

Before you can stop yourself, you say, "More than anything."

Catherine smiles then and you know, someday, that smile will be the end of you. When did your heart start beating so fast? What happened in the last few days between the two of you? Your notions of what Catherine Willows is and should be completely altered now.

She's the same, yet different. She's the same woman with the same voice and same eyes and same everything, but it's all different to you now. It's attractive and elusive and you want to learn more about her.

You want now, more than ever, to find what links you to her. There is more to your relationship than the quarreling, than your jobs. You smile back at her and she at you and you're in that moment again. Those moments where you think Catherine sees you as more than just who you are. She sees you, understands you. She knows you better than she lets on.

"Mom?"

Lindsey's voice startles you both, breaking the comfortable gaze you were both locked in. Catherine recovers more quickly than you, approaching the young girl. "You okay, honey?"

"Yeah, fine. Paul is still asleep, though," she yawns, then seemingly notices you for the first time. "Hi, Sara."

"Hey," you say, giving her a short wave of your hand. You always feel awkward around kids.

"Paul mentioned something about pancakes," Lindsey says.

"Oh, that's not necessary," you say immediately.

"Nonsense," Catherine waves off your concern. "He'll have whatever he wants."

Whatever Paul wants. You begin to wonder if this arrangement benefits Paul more than it benefits you.

**

* * *

**

You open one eye.

There's a figure in your doorway. It holds what appears to be a gun and while that normally would alarm you, you also notice this figure has a bed sheet tied around their neck like a cape and has a bike helmet on their head. Upon further inspection, the gun is starting to look a lot more like a toy. The toy you bought for Paul a few days ago.

Paul had surprised you again, asking for this toy. It was a toy gun of all things. It functioned like a gun. It looked like a gun (if you ignored the bright yellow color) and as far as you knew, guns still scared him. Hell, the sound of a car backfiring in a car lot scared the living crap out of him. Still, he wanted this toy gun. He was asking you to buy it for him.

Everything you ever knew about your brother was changing. Things he used to fear, he embraces. You never would've imagined such a transformation. When Paul first arrived in Vegas looking for you, nothing about the way he talked or acted gave you just reason to believe that things had changed. He was just Paul, he always would be.

Only now, you're discovering little things, learning new things about him.

He likes to cook. His fear of knives and all the memories associated with them are suddenly insignificant. The thought of Dad owning a gun, waving it about, threatening. Paul chooses to ignore those memories. He's learned how to get on with his life. You wonder how he learned to do all that on his own. You wonder why it's so hard for you to do the same. The past still controls you from time to time. Paul is able to live and learn while you still shake from nightmares and memories.

Paul wanted this toy gun.

"You do know that's a gun, right?" you had asked him several time.

"I know," he replied simply. "It's not real. Not like Dad's. Not like yours."

Hmm. You were unaware he knew of your gun. He must have found it, those first couple of nights he parked himself in your room. You never really thought to hide it away, but it would seem you never really had to hide those things to begin with.

He's not afraid of them anymore.

So you bought it. You bought him a dart gun and you don't think you've ever seen his eyes light up in that way. The way a child might look on Christmas morning.

So, you've learned to be more open to the idea that Paul is changing. Paul's maturity is rubbing off on you, you think.

Of course, one might need to redefine the word "mature" when it comes to your brother.

Paul is still looming in your doorway. You shut your eye again and just listen. You wait.

There's a click, indicating the dart gun has been loaded. Unless you wanna get shot, you better take a preemptive strike.

"Ha! Caught you!" you yell, jumping up from your bed suddenly. In your hands? A matching dart gun.

Yes, you bought one for yourself. Mostly because you're a total nerd and partly for reasons such as this. Because you know that Paul can't seem to follow rules or listen to you when he's supposed to. Because Paul will try to pick a fight with you when you are clearly trying to rest up for work.

"Sara! Hey, stop it!" Paul yells back. You don't stop. You fire until all the ammunition you have is exhausted. "Stop it! Stop it!"

"What did I tell ya?" you say, walking up to him. You smirk at the dart sticking to his helmet. You pull on it and it makes a satisfying pop when it releases. He winces at the sound as if he were truly wounded. You continue to scold him, "I sleep during the day. You need to stay out of my room while I sleep. You try to disturb my sleep, you will pay. It's that simple, Paul."

"But it's boring during the day," he whines. This won't be the first time he's complained about this. "I want to go to Catherine's."

Hmph. Catherine this. Catherine that. He hasn't really stopped talking about her since this whole babysitting arrangement started. He truly adores her. You believe it's because he never had a real mom. While your mother was victim, she wasn't exactly a model citizen. She was the adult and she should've protected both you and Paul. She could've tried anything, really.

Well, except murder. You would've preferred she not resort to murder, but she did.

Anyway, Catherine is that replacement, that mother he wished he had. Needless to say, it does sting a little that Paul is so hung up on her. Catherine is a friend now, sure, but Paul should want to be with _you_ 24 hours a day. You are his sister, his blood. Is it wrong to feel a tad jealous of Paul and Catherine's easy relationship?

Maybe. Doesn't mean you can't express this jealously from time to time.

"Again, Catherine is asleep during the day, just like me," you tell him, leading him out of your room. "We both work at night, so when do we have to sleep, Paul?"

"During the day," he says, disappointed.

"Correct." You grab a remote and turn to a cooking channel. "Watch this. Learn something. I'm going back to bed."

Before you can take one step back toward your bedroom, Paul squeals in excitement.

Oh no.

"Oo, Sara! Look at what they're making! Let's make some!"

Oh, for crying in the sun, no.

"Did anything I just said get through?" you say, looking at him unbelievably.

"Can we make some now?"

You shake your head and mutter to him sleepily. "You weren't listening at all."

"You can take them into work!" he suggests, hopping up and grabbing a pencil and paper to scribble down the recipe.

He's ignoring you on purpose. He knows you have to go to bed. He _knows_ this.

He also knows you won't leave him in the kitchen by himself. He knows that too.

**

* * *

**

There's a whistle as you enter the breakroom. That whistle would belong to Nick Stokes. Why is Nick whistling? Well, surely not because you look drop dead gorgeous today. Oh no. You probably look the way you feel: like shit.

You must've only gotten a few hours sleep today, you think. You were baking with Paul in your apartment's little kitchenette instead of sleeping. Why the hell weren't you sleeping?

"Wow, Sara. Whose birthday is it?" Greg says, eyes widening hungrily.

With a deep frown, you unceremoniously drop the plate of cookies on the table. All 60 of them. Sixty jumbo, chocolate chip cookies. You yawn obnoxiously.

Catherine's face, graciously, is very sympathetic. She guesses, "Paul?"

"Don't. . ..don't say his name," you order her, as you walk by the table and head straight for the coffee machine.

"Whose name?" Greg teases. "Your brother's name?"

You whirl around, fresh cup of coffee in hand. "Don't say it. Don't say his name or mention him for the rest of the night. Just eat the damn cookies so I won't have to look at them any longer."

"Wow, Sunshine. You really didn't get much sleep, did you?"

You ignore Nick's moniker for you. It's a name he gave you years ago. You head for the door, then whirl back around again, "And if you don't eat a cookie, I will shove them all down your throats. I promised Paul they would all be eaten."

"You just mentioned the name you said not to mention," Greg points out.

You noticeably growl.

Nick grabs a cookie quickly in response. He hums his delight, "Mmm...good. Really great, Sara. Paul's a regular ol' Emeril."

The other CSIs follow suit, all eating a cookie and praising its goodness. You go to leave, swearing you saw Catherine covering her mouth in an attempt to conceal her laughter.

You spend most of the night yawning, the other part catching up a paperwork. Normally, you'd be begging any supervisor on staff for an assignment on slow nights, but this time you're truly grateful for the break. Not to say the paperwork isn't boring and thus, making you even more tired and droopy.

You turn a corner and see Catherine's office door is open. You poke a head in, smile when you see her office chair is empty and stride on over to it.

You plop down, never more happy to see a chair. Never more happy to be sitting in a chair. It is Catherine's chair, though, and only briefly do you consider the consequences of commandeering a supervisor's office to take a quick cat nap.

Just as you're nodding off to catch a few Z's, a knock on the desk startles you awake again.

"I wasn't asleep in your chair," you announce, sitting up straighter. You're greeted with Catherine half-smiling down at you, a cell phone in hand.

She says simply, "It's Paul."

Curious, you take the phone, "Hey, buddy. Everything alright?"

"Fine. No. Not fine. I can't sleep." He sounds exhausted. His exhaustion only makes you yawn into the phone. He shows his concern. "You're tired too?"

Paul's selected memory has always astounded you. As if he can't recall keeping you up half the day baking cookies. Instead of saying something smart, though, you joke with him, "Insomnia runs in the family."

He chuckles. "Yeah, I guess. I don't know what to do. Lindsey already tried reading to me, but I can tell she wants to go to bed now."

"She's still up?" you ask.

"Yeah," he confirms. "I woke her. I didn't want to but. . .I didn't want to be awake and alone. The house is big. And dark."

There's a squeeze on your heart, not just for Paul's predicament, but for Lindsey's persistence. She doesn't have to stay up with Paul, she shouldn't be. She has school in the morning.

You look up at Catherine, who is always ready with an answer. She mouths the word "Go" at you. You nod. You know she'll smooth things over with Grissom when you leave, because frankly, you _are_ going to leave. There's nothing overly important going on here anyway.

"Hey, I'll be there soon."

You hang up, go to place the phone in your pocket, then remember you're holding Catherine's cell phone and not your own. You glance up at her peculiarly. "Paul has your cell phone number?"

She takes the phone, shrugs. "Well, yes." Then she pauses, realizing what she just admitted to you. She backpedals, "I mean, I give Lindsey all the numbers that will reach me. She probably gave it to Paul."

Wow. So the admiration is mutual. Not only does Paul adore Catherine, Catherine has really taken to Paul.

You smile, stand to your feet. As you walk by, something makes you pause. You turn back around, face Catherine and your smile only broadens. Maybe it's the fatigue, but the warmth in your soul could not be anymore profound. That simple act; Catherine "giving" Paul her personal cell number has fixed you with a bad case of the warm fuzzies. These warm fuzzies are forcing you to say things that are. . .heartfelt and affectionate.

"Cath, I don't think I could ever repay you for this. You or your family," you say quietly. You feel your face flush as you speak. "Paul and I never really had a family to rely on. I just. . .I don't know what I'm trying to say here. I'm just talking. . .I just. . ."

"You're welcome, Sara," Catherine says, sparing you anymore embarrassment.

"I'll call," you tell her. "Let you know how they're doing."

"I'd appreciate that," Catherine says, giving you a slight nod. "Go. I'll see you in the morning."

She'll see you in the morning.

It's a promise no one has ever made to you, you don't think. A promise that someone will seek you out, that they will make certain you are alright. It's true. You never had a family to rely on, not like this. So you make the same promise to her, because that feels like the only right thing to do.

"Yeah. I'll see you in the morning."

To be continued. . .


	6. Simple

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Note: Another chapter I labored over. Your continued feedback has been amazing. Thank you so much.

**Part Six**

**Simple**

You poke your head into Lindsey's room. She's still up and waiting expectantly for an update on Paul. You can tell the young woman is tired and if she doesn't sleep soon, she may not get up for school in the next few hours. You smile and report, "He's fine. He's asleep."

"Good," she says, clearly relieved. "He told me he was having some bad dreams."

"This doesn't happen every night. Your house is a new environment. It'll take a little time," you reassure. "You should sleep, Lindsey."

"I will," she says.

As you go to shut the door, Lindsey calls you back. You look at her.

"Sara? What exactly is wrong with Paul?"

Well. Isn't that the million dollar question.

Your silence may have only lasted a few seconds, but Lindsey can already sense your reluctance to answer. She fidgets with her bed sheet as she explains, "I mean, he was pretty normal after you dropped him off. It was like . . .hanging out with you. I forgot he was sick."

Your mouth twitches into a small smile, the thought of you and Paul having enough similar qualities to be considered interchangeable feels strangely good.

"But then I caught him staring out the window real hard. I called his name a lot and he didn't hear me and when I tapped his shoulder, I thought he was gonna fly right up through our ceiling. He disappeared for a while and I got nervous. I thought I lost him."

Now it's your turn to fidget. "Well, sometimes Paul's nightmares manifest themselves into daydreams. He might've been in a bad place. Does that make sense?"

"I guess," Lindsey nods, her little brow scrunched up in thought. "I found him in Mom's room, hugging a pillow. He seemed better and Grandma suggested it might be time for bed. I read him a story and he was happier, I think, but then he couldn't sleep and I've been wondering ever since what's wrong with him."

You can't imagine that Lindsey will ever understand 'what's wrong with Paul' because frankly, you don't really understand it yourself. And while now might not be the best time to discuss Paul's conditions, you have a feeling Little Willows won't shut her eyes at all until her question is answered. You step into her room and pad softly in socked feet to her bed. You sit on the edge and give a tiny shrug. "To be honest, I don't think we ever found out."

"How come?"

Great. More questions. It's not like you gave a satisfying answer anyway, so you should've expected it.

You take a deep breath. "I did take Paul to the doctor. Several, actually. Each doctor told me something different. Recommended different pills, different treatments. Nothing seemed to work, or Paul would abandon the process before we could tell if the medication was working or not. I've been leaning toward some kind of anxiety disorder. He's not depressed, I don't think."

"Oh," Lindsey replies. You watch her lie down now, her brow creased in deep thought. She looks at you, "Well, maybe we could take him back to a doctor. One around here. Maybe they can really tell you what's wrong."

Her suggestion sounds so simple.

"Maybe," you agree reluctantly. You stand and pull the sheets up tighter to the young woman's shoulders. "Get some rest, okay? Paul will be alright."

Lindsey yawns and mumbles, "I hope so."

She hopes. She hopes that Paul will be alright.

When did Lindsey Willows become so caring, so thoughtful? The only image you've ever had of the young girl was one shrouded in tears. Tears and rain. That was a tough case, a rough few days. The loss of Eddie Willows put an unbelievable strain on your relationship with Catherine. A relationship that was already tenuous to begin with.

You never really thought this before, but you and Lindsey do have one thing in common. You both lost your father's and while they weren't exactly model citizens, they were still the men who gave you life. The men, who at some point, made your mother's happy.

You rise from her bed, cut the lights and gently shut the door. Surrounded by the darkness of the hallway, you find your way about the house. Paul was right. Catherine's house is big. Bigger than anything you've ever lived in. Not even your foster families had accommodations such as these. You literally would've died had the system ever placed you in a house with more than one bathroom. Catherine has three.

Down the steps you go, through the foyer and into the family room. The moment your eyes land on the couch, you yawn and remember just how little sleep you got the previous day. Not wanting to totally renege on your promise to call, you pull out your cell phone and compose a text message.

"Paul and Lindsey are asleep. I'm crashing on your couch."

You send it.

Head crashes into the cushions of the couch and instantaneously, you're in another world. You're in another time. You're back home.

Dad is towering over you, large arms going to wrap you up in a hug except it's not the good kind of hug. It's the kind of hug you know doesn't mean a damn thing. The kind of hug where Dad thinks he can win you over; that the senseless beating he just bestowed upon you or Paul or your Mom will just simply erase from your memory if he embraces you tight and passes along fake pleasantries.

You hate him and you want to escape.

Eyes fly open and the room is strangely familiar and you struggle to get free. You are wrapped up in something and as the foggy nightmare enters consciousness, you begin to realize these aren't arms hugging you tight. You don't know what has you in such a strong grip, but you have to get free of it. Your struggle sends you off the couch and onto the floor with a loud thump.

You grimace, arms slowly untangling from your burrito hell.

"Sara?" You look up just in time to see Catherine's eyes go wide. "Oh God. . .Are you okay?"

"Yeah," you groan, then blink eyes in surprise. It was a blanket. Catherine probably saw you asleep on the couch and put the blanket on you. It wasn't your Dad's killer embrace that had you wrapped up so. It was Catherine's thoughtful gesture; a safe haven in which to sleep. It's a shame you can't seem to determine what holds are the good kind and what are the bad.

Every hug is new; every act of kindness weird. You went most of your life not knowing what it would be like to have someone care for you and hold you. Catherine does all of that and you can't tell the difference between her kindness and your nightmares? What kind of person have you grown into? Where every touch reminds you of anger?

A hand lands on your shoulder and you recoil, a reaction not of your own accord. Catherine doesn't seem to visibly react to your rejection to her touch, but she stays close, knelt down next to you with curiously watching eyes. You right yourself, sitting on the floor and leaning back against the couch.

"You got my text?" you ask. You feel the words are cold, but you'd rather not dwell on your little nightmare or the fact that you just fell flat on your face in front of Catherine.

"Yeah," she nods. Her tone isn't necessarily warm either. She stands to her feet, asking if you want coffee. More out of courtesy, you think and not because she really wants to serve it up.

You sit on the floor a moment longer, then decide you better explain yourself. Catherine is a very tactile person and considering you two are friends now, she probably doesn't understand why you still flinch when she makes an overt gesture to reach out.

You walk into the kitchen, the aroma of coffee filling your nostrils. You walk over to her. She's busying herself with some nonsensical activity, like wiping down an already clean counter. You've noticed she likes to clean when she's either thinking or she's irritated.

When you stop, you're standing so close to her that it startles you both when she acknowledges your presence. You only step back a little, smiling shyly. "Thanks. For the blanket."

You feel like you've been thanking Catherine a lot lately.

"You looked cold," she says, returning her attention back to the counter. "I woke Paul for you. He's in the shower and should be ready to go soon."

Your eyes have fixed themselves on her hands, swirling in a circular motion as she wipes down the pristine surface. You almost don't catch the spite in her voice. Telling you Paul should be ready because maybe she thinks you want to leave as soon as possible? Maybe so.

It's not like you haven't been eager to do so in the past, but right now, all you can watch are her hands and you're not quite so eager to leave just yet. You really don't know what to say at the moment, so you back up a little and find a clean mug in the dish drain. You pour some coffee, meander over to the table and sit down. You sink a little in the chair, getting comfortable.

She finally ceases her unneeded cleaning to glance at you over her shoulder. You look at her over the rim of your mug. After a long moment, she grins a little. "Breakfast?"

You feel your soul grow lighter. You stand and offer, "I'll help."

Her smile broadens and as you both move about the kitchen, deciding on waffles today instead of pancakes, you can't help but notice how cushy this all feels. How nice.

Then Catherine says something that surprises you. "Paul isn't the only one with nightmares?"

You stop mixing up the batter and say, "No. He's not."

Tentatively, Catherine's hand covers your own. You don't jump; at least not as prominently as before. You look at her and she tells you, "I'll have to keep that in mind."

"Thanks for understanding," you barely say.

You feel like you've been thanking Catherine a lot lately.

-------------------------

It's the start of another shift and you think you might be sick. You clear your throat again just as Grissom taps the doorframe to get your attention.

You turn from your locker and smile at him. "Hey."

"Hey," he smiles back. "Just wanted to check in on you. How are things with Paul?"

"Better," you answer. "He's been getting along with Lindsey. Actually, it's scary how much he likes her."

Grissom nods. "Sounds like Paul has gained some interpersonal skills since you saw him last."

"Yeah, I guess so," you admit. Grissom leaves you to mull that thought over for a minute. You remember a time when Paul couldn't behave around anyone but you. Things have changed now which means Grissom is right. Paul has improved in the 'being sociable' area. That scares you because you're discovering what little control you had over him is starting to dwindle away. His growing independence is giving him the power to disagree with you.

You're not ready to give up control to him yet.

A quick look at your watch for the time and then you leave the locker room to find Catherine. You almost have to laugh. Lately, your days have seemingly revolved around her. You don't think it's purposeful. It's just, you see her outside of work all the time now and it's beautifully strange.

Weeks ago, you couldn't find anything else that bonded you to her. Now you do. It's Paul.

Sometimes you share the same car going to work. You have to drop Paul off at her house anyway. Why use two cars to head to the same place?

You've had breakfast there more than a few times already too. It's better Paul eat waffles at her place, then have to go back to your apartment and scrounge for a bowl of cereal. There are a lot of things about this arrangement you might be taking advantage of, but on the other hand, most of these ideas (breakfast, car pooling) are all Catherine's and she humbly does all she can to make Paul feel comfortable.

Suddenly, you have a family of sorts. Such an odd word to use. Family. It was only a few weeks ago, you weren't sure you should call Catherine your friend. Everything has changed so quickly.

You cough, interrupting your own thoughts. Damn it, you're exhausted. You'd like to blame Paul and his endless well of energy, but honestly, you think you really have come down with something serious.

A couple of days ago, you were just sniffling. Occasionally coughing. You took some cold medicine and that seemed to be helping. In fact, the cold was almost non-existent until today.

Now, the symptoms are suddenly worse. Congested chest, shortness of breath, raspy coughing. You've been swinging back and forth between fever and chills as well. You cough again, trying to clear your throat of all the muckiness before you enter Catherine's office.

You finally find your voice. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yeah. Suspicious circs. Everyone else already has a case," she says. You notice she hasn't outright ordered you to join her. You realize that she doesn't want to be too forceful, too bossy. It's the way things have changed between the two of you.

The level of comfort you feel around Catherine, knowing that Paul and Lindsey get along just fine, it unnerves you. You didn't think it would be this easy. You're fairly certain Catherine didn't think so either.

So needless to say, the comfortable awkwardness is evident and only seems to worsen as time rolls on.

"I'll just grab my kit and jacket," you say.

"Okay. Meet you out in the parking lot," she smiles shyly, then returns to the report on her desk. Before you can leave, your sickly body startles you with an unexpected cough. It shakes you, a build up of congested nastiness now residing in your throat. You can't clear it.

You're not the only one startled by the cough. You hear Catherine call out, "Sara?"

"Fine," you say through gargled muck. You literally skip to the bathroom and once behind the safety of the closed door, you cough as hard you can. The grossness is in your mouth and you spit it out in the sink. The color of the phlegm, a pale yellow, makes your stomach turn.

You immediately rinse the sink and your mouth having trouble remembering the last time you were this sick. You look in the mirror, your features green around the edges. You look awful. You never thought you might actually consider this, but maybe you should go home.

The door opens and Catherine pokes her head in. "Sara? You okay?"

You perk up and smile, "Great. Just had something in my throat."

"If you have to go home, you can go. It's just a suspicious circs. Nothing too urgent," Catherine tells you.

"No, I'm fine," you insist. Your labored breathing is telling you otherwise. Catherine shrugs and leaves. You look in the mirror again and convince yourself that this is nothing. You've been through worse.

In no time at all, you have your kit and jacket and find Catherine waiting at the Tahoe for you. As you climb in the passenger side, she says, "Brass will meet us there."

You suppress another cough and mumble, "Okay."

Catherine starts the engine, but can't help but look at you with concern. Her eyes are sympathetic as she comments, "You really don't look well, Sara."

"I'm fine," you say again. It's now become your mantra.

It's a thirty minute ride filled with loud silence.

-------------------------

You both stand next to Detective Jim Brass, looking at the old structure looming ahead of you. You clear your throat, then ask, "Why is it suspicious circs always involve a creepy, old haunted house?"

Jim smirks, "Haunted?"

"So, what's the deal?" Catherine cuts in, slowly making her way up to the house. She's in no joking mood, obviously. You follow her, as does Jim. The detective begins to give you the details.

"Some kids called it in. Said they were riding their bikes along this way, like they always do. This house is a source of entertainment for them. They like to dare each other to go inside because they think it's _haunted_."

Jim nods toward you, making you laugh lightly.

Catherine pauses in her steps briefly, asking, "So, they went inside?"

Jim smiles again, "No. It seems they never go inside. They're too scared. A bunch of ten-year-old boys playing Triple Dog Dare, you know?"

"Yeah, my brother and his friends made up stupid dares all the time," you remark nonchalantly. You nearly wince, though, realizing what you said. Paul isn't exactly something you broadcast, even though pretty much everyone knows he stays with Lindsey while you work.

Jim simply offers up a small smile at that little anecdote, though, before continuing his narration,"One of the boys, Shaun, told me he they all heard a gunshot. He saw a flash of light in a second story window."

Jim then points to a large oak and finishes, "They hid behind the tree. It was dark, but they think they saw someone running away."

"Are they sure it was a gunshot?" you inquire next.

Jim shrugs, "They seemed pretty sure."

"You found the body?" Catherine asks.

"No, that's the strange thing. No blood that we could see. No body," Jim says. "However, the back door did show signs of forced entry. According to the locals, this house had been boarded up for years. No one has been inside until now."

All three of you stop at the steps leading up to the front door. The house is boarded up, the windows, mostly. The cops called to the scene had busted open the front door to gain access. You shine your flashlight through the threshold, the light allowing you to see a very dusty foyer and a stairwell. You look at Jim and inquire, "We know who the house belongs to?"

Jim nods, "I called in the address and we got a hit. The owner is a Mrs. Kylie Wright. She now resides in San Francisco."

"This is a dump. Why keep the house?" Catherine says.

Jim smirks again, "I'm not a mind reader, Catherine. We're still trying to contact her. I'll get back to you when we do."

Jim leaves. You venture into the house first, slowly casting your flashlight over the foyer and stairwell. Catherine's light soon joins yours, then travels further into the house.

She scrunches up her nose, "Is it me or does it smell musty in here?"

"I smell it too," you nod in agreement.

You both stand there for a moment

"I'll check the back door," she says.

"Okay," you say. "I'll go upstairs."

"Careful," Catherine warns, shining her light at you. "This house looks ancient and there's a hole in the ceiling." You follow her light upward and see the gaping hole. You look back at her as she finishes, "Just watch your step."

"I'll be fine," you smile, before cautiously beginning your ascent. You pause, "Cath? There was a garden hose out front. I didn't see any water access on the front of the house, but maybe you could look for one in the back?"

"Sure thing. Water would explain the musty smell," she nods, disappearing down the hall, the wood boards creaking beneath her as she walks.

You start your climb. The closer you get to the top of the staircase, the more unsettled you feel. You weren't kidding before. Suspicious circs always seem to happen in creepy, old houses. Jim and the local officers cleared the scene, of course, but that doesn't keep every creak and moan of the house from startling you.

You finally get to the top, study the hall and determine which direction you want to go. The boys said they saw a flash in the windows, which means it had to be in the front of the house. The hall leads you to the only two bedrooms that apply. You peek in one and find that gaping hole Catherine pointed out earlier. You have a feeling that whatever happened didn't happen there. So you choose the other room and study the doorframe.

The door is missing, but you don't think it's because of foul play. You don't even see hinges which would suggest the entire door had been removed at some point.

Ugh. You feel a build up of muck in your throat again, but you refuse to cough. You're not going to cough all over this crime scene. You just won't. So you swallow hard, hoping to rid yourself of some of it, but you find swallowing will not help you here either. Okay, the next option is to ignore it. You can do that.

You set your kit down at the door and pull on your gloves. You decide to do a little walk through first. Before you take a step, you see it immediately. A hole in the wall directly across from you. Specifically, a gunshot hole. You smile. So the kids were right. Someone fired a gun in here. You're glad that was easy.

You enter the room slowly, your flashlight illuminating your path. With each step, you feel the floor sink in and out beneath your feet. You stop (mostly out of fear) and look down, wondering why the floor beneath you doesn't feel structurally sound.

So you stand still, waving your flashlight along the walls. It's covered in a very tacky wallpaper. Well, maybe it's more dirty than tacky. You begin to notice the brown splotches are stains, not bad pattern work. You can only think of one element that does this.

Water. Specifically, dirty water. The streaks and splashes are erratic. You turn your head and view all of the walls. There's no mistaking it. Someone came in here with a hose or power washer and literally washed this room. This prompts you to look down again.

This is why the integrity of the floor beneath your weight feels so weak. You're practically standing on saturated wood. You mutter aloud to yourself, "Perfect."

You recount how many steps you took in here. About four. The door behind you is just a few feet away. All you have to do is take careful steps backward to get out of here. Simple.

So you do. You take one careful step backwards. Unfortunately, it's your last. The old plywood and framework give way beneath you. Through the new hole you've created, you take a one way trip back down to the first floor.

You would've preferred taking the stairs.

The fall seems to take forever.

You scream or shout or make some sort of verbal utterance as you tumble through the air. Somehow, you land on top of your left hand, both arms outstretched to break your fall. All the dust that was upstairs travels down with you and this time you are not ashamed to hack your lungs out.

Time slows. There's this moment of 'Holy Hell' flashing through your mind, as you wonder how you got down here so fast. Ah, right. You fell. Through a hole. Gravity. The moment of wonderment is over.

"Sara!"

Was that Catherine or Jim?

You struggle to move, your left hand killing you. Your breathing is also very labored. You don't know if that's due to your cold or the dust.

A hand is on you, then pulls back quickly. You begin to wonder the same thing your rescuer is thinking. Should they move you? Should you try to move? You don't think anything vital is broken. You can wiggle your toes which means no spinal injury.

"We need a medic!"

Again, the voice doesn't register, but it's good to know help is on the way. It's just your left hand. You might have fractured the wrist or something.

"Sara, can you hear me?"

It is Catherine and that makes you feel so much better. Better that it's her and not some green officer you don't know.

"Yeah," you reply hoarsely, your foggy mind clearing up. You begin to cough violently. When the coughing dies down, you half smile. "I fell."

"Yeah, you fell," she replies, following your lead and trying to keep the mood light. She notices that you haven't bothered to move very much. "How are your legs?"

"Stiff," you say, moving them slightly.

It's now you can determine the orientation of your body. You're face down, your left hand sandwiched between your chest and the floor. Your head is on its left side, the wooden floorboards scratching at your cheek. What you can't explain is why you feel so warm? And is something crawling on you? There are several spots along your neck and arms that itch crazily.

"Sara, honey, keep those eyes open for me," Catherine says calmly. Your eyes were closed? You didn't realize, so you open them. It's hazy and blurry, but you can make out her form kneeling down next to you in the dusty darkness. Her flashlight is on the floor, facing away from you and providing the only light. She mumbles something, then yells, "We need a medic, Brass!"

You hear a vague voice in the background reply, "I'm already on it, Catherine!"

You go to move again, but Catherine stops you with a gentle hand on your back, "Don't move, Sara. I don't want to risk anything. Just wait for the EMT."

You blink your eyes a few times, before you complain, "It hurts. I want to move off it."

"What hurts?" she asks, now her index finger pushing strands of hair out of your face. It's a calming gesture and you appreciate it. Her touch is keeping your mind off the pain, for the most part.

"My hand. It's underneath me and it hurts," you say visibly wincing

She sounds sympathetic, but she remains steadfast, "You just fell 9 feet, Sara. As much as your hand hurts, I'd feel much better if you remained still until the medics got here."

"Fine, okay," you agree reluctantly. You try to smile, "It's probably just a sprain."

"Probably," she says.

You advert your eyes as far up as they can go so you can see Catherine's face. She has this look about her. You don't think you've ever really seen this look before. Maybe not directed at you. You know that she's petrified. The rest of her face is fairly stoic, but her eyes gleam wildly at you with worry. You want to tell her you're okay.

"Cath, I'm alright."

She releases a pent up chuckle coupled with a loud sniffle. She's trying not to cry. "Are you sure?"

"About as sure as I can be," you tell her, your lips creaking into a small smile.

"Anything else feel broken? Can you feel your toes?"

"Judging by the tingling sensation in my legs, I'd say my spine is just fine," you answer confidently. "It's just my hand. Honestly, I think I can move now. I got the wind knocked out of me, that's all."

"Come on, Sara, we both know that's not all," Catherine almost whispers. "I can hear you wheezing. Broken rib, maybe? Making it hard to breathe?"

No, not a broken rib, you don't think, but it is getting harder to breathe. You hear frantic shoes clomping up toward you, but from your position on the floor, you can't see who it is. "Is she alright?"

Jim. Catherine looks up and away to the figure looming over you. She relays the injuries you cited, "Broken hand or wrist. Not sure which one yet. She's having a hard time breathing and I'm still afraid to move her."

"Well, ETA is about five minutes. She'll be on her way to the hospital in no time," Jim says, before entering your line of sight. His eyes soften, his hardened detective shell fading away. "Hang tight, Sara."

You try desperately to get more oxygen to your lungs. It's very little. You manage to say somewhat jokingly, "I'm not going anywhere."

The detective leaves you with Catherine and you advert your eyes back to her. You cough, this time phlegm blocking your air passages. Okay, that's not good. Not good at all.

Your right hand searches out Catherine's, as if holding her hand will magically bring the miracle of breath back to you. She grabs it immediately. You breathe in, but your throat is still blocked. You try coughing on purpose, but still find it hard to get the necessary oxygen you need.

"Sara?" Catherine says timidly, grasping your hand tighter.

"Can't. . .," you say, struggling to tell her what you need. You're beginning to feel a lightheaded sensation. Well, that can't be good either. Your eyes are clouding over. You're going to black out.

"Sara?" Catherine calls out strongly this time, gently shaking your hand.

Your eyes look at her, you can feel them widening in fear. You're going to die. This is it. You can't breathe. You're lightheaded. Your vision is blurring. You're going to die. You open your mouth, gasping like a fish out of water. You can't speak. You can't breathe. You're going to die. Never in your wildest dreams did you think you would go out like this.

"No, Sara, no," Catherine shakes her head, now holding your right hand in both of hers. She says determined, "You're panicking, Sara. Calm down."

"I . .. I. . .," you squeak out. Somehow you flip yourself over, lying on your back and gasping violently. Now that you're not lying on your chest, air is having a better time getting in, but it's still not enough. Catherine was right. You are panicking.

You lose your grip on Catherine's hand because you flipped over, but she urgently seeks it out again. Your left hand also howls in pain and you do everything you can to keep from crying.

"Sara, stay calm, sweetheart," she continues to speak softly. She squeezes your good hand tightly. "They'll be here soon, okay? Hold on for me."

Your vision blurs more, if that's possible. She's becoming a ghost.

"Sara, don't. . .don't do this. Hold on for me."

Hold on for her. Her face comes into focus for just a second, but that's all the time you need. There's more than just worry written on her face. There's fear. There's love. How can all that be there? You want to ask, you want to know what Catherine is really thinking, but all you do is cough. It hurts so bad. Everything hurts so much.

"Sara, c'mon," Catherine pleads. She's practically ordering you to breath, to live. "You can't go. You can't leave Paul."

You look at her again. Paul.

Hold on. Don't die. Not yet.

"Cath, they're here," you hear Jim say, which is followed by more footsteps and voices. A medic pulls Catherine away from you, which only sends you into a more frenzied panic. You have to say something. You have to talk to her.

Talking, however, is not an option. Everything is starting to fade. You feel yourself floating up and then onto a gurney. An oxygen mass is fastened to your face. You shut your eyes and you hope this won't be the last time you see daylight.

To be continued. . .


	7. Weakened

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Notes: I apologize for the delay. One, I've been sick with sinus nastiness. Two, I did mention in the notes of the first chapter that this fic is actually the combination of about three different fic ideas rolled into one bigger story, so I've still been trying to sort most of that out. Did I mention this was going to be an interesting ride? Well, I'm mentioning it now. Again, a huge thank you for all the reviews and comments. They help enormously.

**Part Seven**

**Weakened**

You breathe in deeply. Now that feels good. That feels really great, actually.

Opening your eyes, however, almost proves fatal. Bright light floods your vision and it burns. Gah, too bright, too bright! Blinking rapidly helps long enough for the dilated pupils to adjust.

Brain waves transmit commands to move a leg or an arm, but your limbs don't respond. Panic settles in and you try desperately to move something. Anything. When you manage to twitch a toe, you relax.

You feel weak. Weaker than you ever remember feeling. Considering your childhood history, that's quite an amazing feat.

You breathe in again and then out, slowly. Something off to your right mimics the act of your breathing. Beeping sounds register next. Hospital sounds. A respirator. That's what you hear. You're hooked up to a tank of O2 or something. That must be it. It's safe to say you're not going to die now, which is good. You're too cute to die this young.

If you had the strength, you'd laugh at your own joke.

You have to shut your eyes again, if not from the lights, but from the throbbing pain in your head.

Seriously, this is the kind of luck you have. Your life was moving along; discovering a new rhythm. You and Catherine are quite possibly considered bonafide friends both on the job and off. Paul, that crazy brother of yours, not nearly as crazy as you once thought. Work has been about as normal as its ever been. Your life was suddenly interesting and full of surprises and . . . well, less boring.

Not to say falling through the floor in on old house qualifies as boring, but the point is, life was great until _that_ happened. Now your body hurts, your eyes can't stand the light for more than a few minutes and did you mention everything hurts? Well, everything hurts.

You think you're alone until you hear voices off to your left. Two voices. Your droopy eyes bring the two figures into focus. Catherine and Paul. Your heart warms at the sight. You want to get their attention, but you're too tired, too feeble to speak. You feel you might fall asleep again at any moment and the last thing you want to do is sleep. You want to be there for Paul, but as you listen in, it becomes abundantly clear that Paul will be just alright without you. Catherine is proving to be a suitable "mother-figure" replacement.

"Paul, are you listening to me?"

"Yes," he whimpers. He's been crying. _Don't cry_, you think. _I'm fine._

"Sara will be fine, I promise. She's going to wake up real soon and you know what?"

Paul sniffles. "What?"

Catherine smiles. "The first thing she's going to ask is when can she go back to work. It'll be like she never got hurt."

You wish you had the power to scoff at Catherine's assumption. She's right, of course. The last place you want to be is here in a hospital bed. Still, you wish Catherine didn't know you as well as she does. She almost knows you better than you know yourself.

He nods. "She likes her job. I can tell."

Catherine smiles widely now. "Yes she does. Most importantly, she loves you. She's not going anywhere. She just fell. Nothing serious."

Paul hugs Catherine.

You blink.

Witnessing their hug, you can't help but smile in satisfaction. Of all the people in this world, Catherine Willows was the last person you would have expected to be Paul's true, best friend. Really though? Should it be that much of a surprise to you? Not even your own mother treated Paul like this. Your mother never held Paul like that. She never hugged him like Catherine does.

You blink, this time the image of those two are gone. Did you fall asleep again? Was it a dream?

No, you saw what you saw. Catherine did hug Paul, she did console him. You must've fallen asleep, content to see that Paul would be okay. Content to see that Catherine would take care of him.

Warm skin against your own registers next. You don't remember anyone holding your hand before so you squeeze to get their attention.

"Sara?" Catherine says, snapping up her head instantly and looking at you. She's sitting in a chair next to your bed, body hunched over like she had been napping. Her fingers are intertwined loosely with yours. She looks exhausted.

You go to say hello but some damn tubing is still stuck in your mouth. You only manage a mumbling sound. To this, Catherine smiles at you.

"Hey," she greets you softly, blinking her own eyes rapidly in an attempt to wake up herself. "You've been out for a while."

She goes to stand, but fearfully, you tighten your grip on her hand. You fear she's leaving you. You also think whatever medication you're on is encouraging this fear to race through your veins like wildfire. You don't want her to leave you.

"They told me to grab a nurse when you woke up," she explains, trying to extricate her hand from yours. "I'll be right back, I promise."

You don't let go of her hand yet, as if she's just spoken Greek and none of her words make sense. Her eyes squint at you thoughtfully, before she reaches over with her other hand and grazes her fingertips against your cheek. You shut your eyes at the touch and suddenly know what it is that Paul sees in Catherine. He sees true tenderness. It's what you feel through her touch right now.

"Sara? You with me?"

Are you with her? You nod, fluttering your eyes open again.

"You gotta let go, okay? I'll be back," she promises again.

You loosen your grip and her hand slides away. She smiles softly at you and then she's gone.

Your eyes spy the IV drip and again you wonder what medication you're on, because you were seriously just being really clingy and needy just now. Needy. For Catherine.

Okay, let's just focus on something else now.

You look around the room again, your bed surrounded by machines and sterile white walls. It's a room not unlike the room you left Paul in all those years ago. No wonder he hated it there.

When you breathe in, you cough. Coughing hurts and it shakes your entire body.

What in the world kind of virus did you catch? It has finally dawned on you that what you have is more than a simple cold.

It feels like eons pass before Catherine is back with a nurse. She reclaims your hand almost immediately, probably sensing you'll feel much more comfortable with someone close by. She's right. You do feel better.

The nurse removes the tubing from your mouth and greets you with a bright smile. "I'm Nurse Garret."

You half smile at the nurse, then direct your attention to Catherine. Your voice is hoarse, but at least your words are coherent. "I think I'm sick."

Catherine chuckles at your little joke, sounding a bit more relieved.

Garret is checking your vitals as she asks, "How are you feeling?"

_Crappy._ You force a smile and say meekly, "Really tired."

"Well, that doesn't surprise me, Miss Sidle. You have come down with a bad case of pneumonia," Garret says, delivering the news with that ever so charming nurse-like pep. "You might have noticed the labored breathing, weariness. We have you on some antibiotics. That'll help clear up your lungs. The O2 was just to help you breathe while you slept."

You glance over to Catherine, then back to the nurse, "Pneumonia? I thought I had a cold."

"Pneumonia is a build up of bacteria in the lungs. This bacteria loves to feed on weakened systems," she tells you. "So it is very likely you had a simple cold at first."

Okay, now you know what you have. Onto more important matters. "When can I go home?"

"_Sara_," Catherine says, her tone a light warning to take it easy. The nurse misses that tone entirely, much to your liking.

"You can check out soon, Miss Sidle. The doctor will check in on you first, then write out your prescriptions as well," Garret tells you. "First, I want to redress the cast on your wrist. You twisted it quite nicely, but don't worry. It's a clean break. You shouldn't be wearing it for too long."

You notice the cast for the first time as Garret tends to the dressing and bandages. So your wrist is broken. Great. There's no way Grissom is going to allow you to work now. Not with pneumonia and a complimentary broken wrist to boot.

The nurse is done and leaves to find the doctor. He'll be giving out orders on what to do once you're home; how to take care of the cast and bandages, when to take your medicine, etc. You are none too thrilled about this aspect of your plight. You'd rather be working.

"I want to know what happened," you say, trying to sit up more. You grunt and gasp in pain. "Wow."

Catherine offers up an explanation for your discomfort. "They wrapped your ribs. You bruised them in the fall." She reaches over and helps to adjust the bed with a remote. Now you're sitting up.

You smile, clearly embarrassed at needing help at all. "Uh, thanks."

"No problem," she smiles.

"So, why did I fall?" you ask again.

She starts out by giving the long answer. "Before you fell, I noticed the back door was completely worn down. It was practically falling apart in my hands. I took a sample. After your accident, Warrick and Nick went back to the scene, grabbed the sample of the doorframe and delivered it to Hodges. I know we suspected water had made the wood pliable, but that wasn't the only thing infesting the walls of that house."

"Water," you repeat, closing your eyes momentarily. "I remember the bedroom on the left side of the house, the wallpaper was covered in erratic, brown stains. The whole room smelled musty, even more so than downstairs. That's when I noticed the floor beneath me was soddened as well. It seemed like the whole room had been hosed down with a power washer."

"Well, the house did have rooms with particularly strong concentrated areas of water," she confirms. "I suspect someone was trying to cover up a crime and used the hose to wash away any evidence, literally. However, that's not the primary reason the floor weakened beneath you."

"Then what was?" you ask.

She chuckles lightly. "Termites."

"Termites," you repeat deadpan.

"Yeah, the whole house was infested. I'm surprised it hasn't collapsed under its own weight by now," she says, still amazed. "That sample sent to trace had a colony of termites all its own. Grissom took the case once he realized there were bugs involved."

You frown. "You mean he took it so I wouldn't have to work it."

"Sara, c'mon, you know you have to take time off," she tells you pointedly. You shake your head, not wanting to hear the words "time off" in the same phrase as your name.

"Catherine was right," Paul says from the doorway.

You smile at him, glad to see he's no longer upset. "Hey, get over here."

Paul bounds over eagerly, careful to hug you without squeezing you. He says, "Catherine told me you would be more concerned about work than yourself."

You glance at Catherine, "Did she now?"

Catherine obviously didn't expect Paul to say anything about that, because her eyes have widened some and she glances at Paul as if silently telling him to shut up. You don't have the heart to tell her that you already heard the conversation anyway.

"It's okay, I know you like work," Paul shrugs. "I just, I didn't know you could get hurt like that. I thought you were dying or something."

You laugh lightly. "No, just a stupid cold. . ."

"Pneumonia," Catherine corrects.

"Whatever. I'm fine," you insist, smiling at your brother.

"Well, let's check out and go to Catherine's," Paul says, his voice eager and slightly impatient.

"Huh?" you say, now looking at Catherine again for an explanation.

Catherine half smiles. "I might've told the doctor that you would stay with Nick until you got better."

"Nick? But Paul said we were going to your house?" you say, really confused now.

"Look, I knew you would want to go home as soon as possible, but the doctor wouldn't release you unless he knew you were going to be cared for. Saying you would stay with Nick was the only way I could think of getting you out."

Interesting. You thought patients could only be released into the care of family or a spouse. . .

"Miss Sidle," says another unfamiliar voice. It's a man dressed in white, a stethoscope draped around his neck. This must be the doctor. "I'm Dr. Zimmerman. I met your boyfriend earlier today. He tells me you'll be staying with him?"

"Hmm? Boyfriend?" you murmur, glancing back at Catherine. Her gaze is rather intense. Her grasp on your hand also tightens, as if trying to signal something to you. When you look at Paul, he coughs. The kind of cough that would indicate he knows something you don't, but he's not telling. Another look at Catherine and that's when it dawns on you.

Catherine told Dr. Zimmerman that Nick was your boyfriend? Um, ick? Oddly . . . the idea that Nick would pose as your boyfriend is comforting. You get your wits about you and finally confirm, "Yes, I'll be staying with my. . .with Nick."

"Her boyfriend," Paul adds cheekily, unable to hold back most of his giggles.

"You don't have anyone listed as an emergency contact," Zimmerman continues, ignoring Paul's giggles and your confusion. "Would you like to list Mr. Stokes?"

"Sure, yeah," you tell him, another glance at Catherine to find her eyes dancing in amusement. "Uh, actually, could you make my contact Catherine?"

To this, Catherine's eyes go a bit wide. You smile at her, before explaining to the doctor, "Nick and I, we've only been dating for a few weeks. I've known Catherine much longer. I trust her."

"That's fine, as long as Ms. Willows doesn't object?" Zimmerman said, glancing at Catherine.

"No, no I don't," Catherine says confidently.

Zimmerman tears a piece of paper off the pad in his hand. He gives that to Catherine and explains, "Those are the pain killers and the antibiotics she's to take. Contact me first if you plan on getting refills. I don't suspect you'll need more, but if you do, I want to know about it, okay?"

"Okay," you nod.

"I'll be right back," he says with a smile, then disappears.

You crack a half smile. "Uh, Nick? Tell me he was in on this."

"It was his idea," Catherine defends herself. "Besides, your closest family member is Paul."

"Good point," you say simply. You glance at Paul, who is loving this, you notice. He's smiling one of the biggest smiles you've ever seen on his face.

"Anyway, Nick was just a cover to get you out of here," Catherine goes on. You quirk an eyebrow at that. "You'll really be staying with me."

Another look at Paul and you almost groan aloud. He, apparently, loves this arrangement. You, on the other hand, would've liked some say in all this. Sure, things with Catherine have been going along smoothly. Paul enjoys staying with Lindsey while you work. He adores Catherine. As mentioned before, there's been an awkward familiarity with the whole arrangement and as a result, your relationship with Catherine has improved two-fold.

Still, you can't imagine Catherine's family having to care for the both of you. That's too much to ask of a fledgling friendship. You tell her gently, "Look, Cath. I appreciate the offer, but we can stay at my apartment."

Your answer doesn't surprise her as she shrugs. Paul is none too pleased.

"I'm not going back to your apartment," he says defiantly, folding his arms. "Neither are you. Catherine promised."

You look at Catherine again, exasperated. "You _promised?_"

"I had to," Catherine says helplessly. No, she didn't have to. It's now you realize, Catherine will just as easily to succumb to Paul's charms. She babies him; she wants to make sure he's happy.

To bolster her case, she says, "Look, my kid has had pneumonia twice. It's not pretty and from what I hear, it's worse for adults. Stay with me until it clears up. You won't have to worry about needing anything and Paul will be there."

"Cath, we'll be okay, really," you refuse again. "Besides, you have your mom and Lindsey to contend with. You don't need Paul and I in the way, 24/7."

Paul growls something under his breath, stands and storms out.

Catherine quirks an eyebrow at you as if to say, "Look what you did!"

You sigh again. "Cath, he likes you a lot. He'll do anything to stay at your house. You baby him."

"And he needs to be babied," she says defensively. "Besides, he thought staying with me was the best thing for you."

You squint your eyes. "He thought of it? I mean, he suggested I stay with you?"

Catherine nods,"Yeah, he did. He made me promise it would be okay. That you would be fine."

You shut your eyes. Baby brothers are a pain in the ass, this you know for sure. When you look at Catherine again, she's half smiling and she knows you're not going to turn her down again. You're going to stay with Catherine until you're well enough to work again. You're going to do it for Paul.

"Fine," you concede, but not before adding. "I just don't need to be fussed over, okay? It's just my wrist. I can walk. Do things for myself."

"Of course," she nods, her relief obvious. She squeezes your hand again. You see her eyes tear up and you wonder what went wrong in the last few seconds. "Sara, I uh. I wanted to say, I'm sorry."

You cough lightly, before saying, "Sorry for what?"

She breathes in deeply, then confesses. "When you were lying there, gasping for air. . .I was frozen. I didn't know what to do."

"Cath. . ." you interject.

"Let me finish, Sara," she cuts you off harshly, squeezing your hand tighter. "They came whisking in and put that oxygen mask on your face and all I could think about was how helpless I was. How useless I was to you. They kept mentioning heart rates and blood pressure and I couldn't help but wonder if all that meant you could've. . ."

She doesn't finish the sentence, but you know what she's trying to say. You could've died. Maybe, more importantly, you could've died in _her_ arms. Your lips quiver some at the thought of that burden, but you have to remain steadfast. There's no need to cry here. You didn't die. You're here. So is she.

You want to hug her, but with all the things sticking in you and the cast and bruised ribs, that's next to impossible. So you just continue to hold her hand. You whisper, "I'm okay."

She nods. "Yeah. You're okay."

Your eyes meet hers.

Euphoria is such a strong word to use at a time like this, but that's what you feel. In the last few weeks, you find yourself just losing all sense of time when in Catherine's presence. You kept thinking you were simply gracious for her help. Having Lindsey watch Paul has literally been a godsend. There's something else, though. This unutterable thing rattling your universe. It's something that shouldn't be happening, not only because you never considered it before but because you're not so sure she's ever thought of it either.

It feels awesomely frightening.

Catherine breaks the intense eye contact first, releasing a short chuckle. She's grasping your hand like it's a lifeline now and she focuses her gaze on the wall.

"Hey, Cat," you call out to her. The nickname slips out, but you don't find yourself regretting it. You've called her that before, but using it now feels more natural and certain. She returns her gaze to you, waiting on you to speak again. You repeat, your voice unwavering, "I'm okay. I'm alright."

Catherine nods again. "Yeah, I know. I know."

"Are you okay?" you ask.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, you're not looking at me," you tell her. You can't help but smile when her eyes shift back to you. This time, they stay locked on you and her cheeks take on a shade of pink.

"I'm looking at you," she says, as if she hadn't been caught doing otherwise.

You tease her. "Now you are."

She smiles now, her eyes shift away again, but snap back to you once she realizes her gaze has gone astray. She sighs, before saying, "When you came crashing through that ceiling, I don't think I ever felt fear like that. When you started to turn blue, that fear became something else."

Something else. The unutterable thing.

"Yeah, I know," you tell her. She really looks at you now. You lick your dry lips, not sure how to say what you want to say. Not sure if you should say anything at all. No one ever said you were brave, especially when it comes to matters of the heart.

Her cell phone rings, as if the device is telling you that this conversation should go no further. Her eyes are apologetic before she looks at her phone.

"It's Grissom. Probably checking up on you."

She stands and walks away, talking quietly.

Something. . .

You yawn and shut your eyes. It's the medication in the IV drip, you know this. You're not thinking clearly because of that. She's not thinking clearly either. She thought you might die. You thought you were going to die. Both your minds have been undermined by fear of loss and fear of death. Strange feelings can occur from such an experience. Strange bonds can be forged.

In a few days, you'll both feel differently. This unusual bond you feel right now will dissipate. You'll continue this friendship like you're supposed to because being her friend is all you ever really wanted in the first place.

Then you open your eyes again and catch her watching you.

Maybe being her friend just isn't enough anymore.

-----------------------------------

You're shaken lightly.

Sluggishly, you open your eyes only to close them tight again. Oh, not yet. Too bright. Way too bright. Where are you anyway? There are a myriad of voices, none of them make sense at first. Finally, you focus on one voice; a young woman's voice. A voice eerily similar to Catherine's. It says something about sleep and drugs and you have a feeling that all this talk pertains to you in some way.

Another gentle shake and you force your eyes open. You see something dark coming at you, but before you can register what it is, the darkness is over your eyes.

Well, that solved the brightness problem.

A voice asks you, "Better?"

"Hmph?" You reach up to your face, your fingers tracing the outline of the sunglasses now on sitting on the bridge of your nose.

"Earth to Sara." Hmm. That's Catherine speaking to you.

"I don't think she's awake." And that's Paul.

"Paul? You and Lindsey go lay out a blanket and pillows on the couch for Sara, okay?" Catherine requests, then gently rubs your shoulder. "Time to wake up, Sara. We're home."

Wake up? Home? Ahh, now you remember. Catherine's car. You're in Catherine's car and you must now be at her house or else she wouldn't be shaking you awake. It's all becoming clearer, in a murky sorta way.

"Home?" you repeat groggily.

Catherine chuckles now. "You are so out of it. It's cute."

"You try functioning. . .with half a pharmacy running through your veins," you retort.

"Still lucid enough to be a smartass, though," Catherine observes.

She undoes the seatbelt for you and that's about all you really remember. The next time your eyes open, you're lying down and staring up at a ceiling fan. You remember this ceiling fan. You shift a little bit, smiling to yourself. You remember this couch too. You've slept on this couch before.

You go to sit up, but don't get very far. Your ribs are still a bit sore and it's made the simple task of bending just a tad difficult. You lie there, breathing in deeply just to test the strength of your pneumonia beaten lungs. You start to cough violently.

"Sara?" Catherine rounds the couch and has knelt down by your side almost immediately. Wow, that was fast. You sincerely hope Catherine hasn't set up baby monitors near you, just so she can hear every cough and wheeze. "Hey, you awake now?"

"I think so." You smile shyly. You have to admit, you're still a bit loopy.

"Hungry?" she asks.

"Not really," you tell her, shaking your head. "Just tired."

"Well, those pain killers should be wearing off now," Catherine says sympathetically. She brushes lose strands of hair from your face, fingers lingering a second longer than you think they should. She pulls her hand back, maybe realizing this too. "You wanna get up?"

"I think I'll just lie here for a moment," you say.

"Okay," she says, rising up and disappearing back to wherever she came from.

There are more voices, hushed whispers. That's when Paul shows his face, waving to you as he walks over. He sits on the floor next to the couch, making his face level with yours. He speaks quietly, "You look tired."

"I am tired," you admit.

"You gotta get better," he says, his eyes literally begging that this be so. "I don't think I could be alone."

You lift a hand to run through his hair. The soft, wavy brown locks are unruly. He never was good at brushing his hair or taking care of it. Just another reminder that Paul is still a child in so many ways. You tell him, "I'll get better and I would never leave you alone, okay?"

Paul nods his head vigorously, but he doesn't seem entirely convinced. You force yourself up into a sitting position, even though that hurts like the dickens, and you coax him to sit with you. You hold onto him and kiss his hair.

You don't think you could live without him either. Not anymore.

To be continued. . .


	8. Perfect

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Notes: Again, a huge thank you for the reviews and feedback. Gives me the confidence to keep on keeping on. As for this update, probably the most lighthearted chapter I've written thus far. I might've gotten carried away in some parts, but it was fun to write. Haha, enjoy.

**Part Eight**

**Perfect**

"Hey, Sidle. Wake up. Time for your meds."

You stir, but don't wake. Swallowing more pills is the last thing you want. You're already sick of them and you've only been out of the hospital for a day.

"Sara, wake up."

A gentle shake of your shoulder finally forces you to sleepily open your eyes. You squint at the daylight and mutter, "Morning?"

"Yeah," Catherine says, then holds up the inhaler prescribed for your pneumonia. You groan at the sight of it. She chuckles lightly. "Sara, I think it's about time you accepted this as a necessary evil."

You flash her a sidelong glare, before using your good arm to push yourself up into a sitting position. You reluctantly take the inhaler, puff on that, then hold out your hand for the pills. She dumps one of each kind in your waiting palm. You swallow those sans water. Next is your wrist. She asks, "So, how's the cast holding up?"

"It's fine," you say indifferently, before laying back down and burying your head in the pillow. You can't keep from smirking, your eyes dancing impishly. "Can I sleep now?"

She chuckles at your child-like tone. "Fine. Don't say I wasn't trying to help you get better."

"I do feel better," you say. It's only seconds later (coupled with her curious eyebrow raise) do you realize you said that aloud. Very cheesy, you think. Nice one.

Graciously, Catherine just smiles in response. She rises from the bed and suddenly the temperature drops in the room. You're cold without her and that's not a good sign. It's a sign of something odd and refreshing and you don't want to feel that way. You don't have time to feel this way.

"Need anything?"

"Hmm?" you say, squinting your eyes.

"You looked like you were going to ask me something?" Catherine says, her tone in the form of a question.

Were you just gawking at her _again???_ You shake your head, "I don't need anything. Thanks, Cath."

She gives you an odd look, before accepting your answer. "Okay. Go back to sleep."

Catherine leaves and that's when you slap your own forehead. You have got to be more careful. It's bad enough that yesterday, in your drug induced haze, all you could do was think about her. Now, with a considerably less amount of pain killers running through your veins, you can't stop gaping at her. Not only can you not stop gaping at her, she keeps _catching_ you gaping at her!

"You can't do this, Sara," you mumble to yourself. "One, you work together. Two, you work together and three, you work together. Not happening."

You stare at the ceiling and a little voice within you declares, "But it is happening."

It. This 'it' is happening. The unutterable thing is happening, or maybe you think it's happening. Maybe you're imagining it. Maybe.

You hear the doorbell, breaking the thoughts up in your mind. Hmm, doorbell. Odd. It's a little early in the morning for visitors. Unless. . .

You strain to listen. The door opens and you don't hear anything for a little while. Then Greg's voice rings true, the first to break the silence.

"We have breakfast!" he announces, his voice just a little too loud. Nick's voice is next, quick to scold him.

"Ever think that Sara might be asleep, Greggo?" Nick says. You chuckle. Nick's scolding is just as loud, if not louder.

The voices lower themselves and you sigh. You want to know what's going on, but sure as the day is long, Greg wastes no time in racing up the steps to see you.

"Beat you!" Greg says, sliding into your room, clearly out of breath. Nick stumbles in next, his face flushed and his eyes squinting harshly at the younger man. Did they seriously just race up the stairs? _Seriously?_ You work with children. Thirty-year-old children.

Nick walks over and smiles apologetically. "Hey, you."

"Hey, you," you smile back.

"Sara?"

Both Nick and Greg turn around to find Paul in the doorway. He looks between them curiously. His eyes stay on Nick the longest and that's because you suspect Paul recognizes Nick from the hospital. He then looks at you. "Catherine said there's no running in the house."

"Paul, right?" Greg says, holding out a hand to greet your brother. Paul won't take his hand. In fact, his eyes only narrow in suspicion. Awkwardly, Greg just brings his hand back to his side. "Well, anyway, we know Catherine doesn't like people running about. We were just playing."

"Right. Just playing," Nick reassures.

"Playing?" Paul repeats. He gives them a crooked grin. "I like playing games too."

"Yeah?" Greg says. "Like video games?"

Paul shakes his head no.

Nick gets in on the act. "Well, what kind of games do you like to play?"

You cringe to yourself. You have a very good feeling Nick shouldn't have asked that question.

The boys don't see it, but you do. The flash of delight in Paul's eyes. Before you can warn any of them, Nick is suddenly face down on the floor.

"Holy hell!" Greg shouts, stepping back.

Holy hell, is right. Before any of you can react properly, Nick's arms are twisted behind his back and he's eating carpet.

With lightning speed, Paul has literally attacked Nick and effectively rendered him defenseless. You go to yell at him, but when you see Paul's eyes glint playfully, you understand what's happening now. Nick and Greg's explanation of 'we were just playing' has inspired your brother to do just the same: he's playing.

So, you decide to sit back and enjoy the show. Unfortunately, Nick can't see anything from his position on the floor and has no idea that this is one of Paul's games.

Paul sits on top of Nick and warns, "I wouldn't move!"

"Uh, Sara?" Greg calls out to you. You look at him, trying to silently communicate that everything is okay. He doesn't seem to get that Paul is playing a game.

"Yeah, Sara. Help?" Nick calls up. "I've heard about your brother. They haven't all been good things."

"Hey, don't talk either!" Paul yells. "You're the guy who's supposed to be my sister's boyfriend. I want to ask questions."

Nick struggles to turn his head around and look at Paul. His voice shakes as he repeats, "Questions?"

"Nick, I wouldn't move, okay?" you tell him, smirking a little bit. "He's crazy."

"Hey, look man. I'm not really her boyfriend, alright?" Nick tries to explain. "That was just a lie to get your sister out of the hospital sooner, that's all."

Paul frowns. "Catherine says you shouldn't lie either."

"Catherine was in on it!" Nick protests.

"Who are you?" Paul asks, ignoring Nick.

"Nick. Nick Stokes," Nick answers promptly. He then calls out, "Sara, call him off, for Pete's sake!"

"Don't move!" Paul yells at Greg, who had stepped forward to help. Paul's voice makes him freeze. You stifle a laugh because Paul is a tad scary when he wants to be. He leans down to Nick and asks again, "Who are you?"

"I said, I'm Nick!" Nick shouts back.

"I know your name! Who are you?"

Greg is clearly worried. He looks at you. "Sara, c'mon! Help him!"

"Nick. Tell him what you mean to me," you explain. "He needs to know you're trustworthy."

Nick's eyes frantically shift around as he thinks. He stammers out, "Okay, okay. We work together. We go out to have drinks. Sometimes breakfast. We're friends, okay? We're friends. Tell him Sara. We're friends."

You purse your lips, thinking a little too long.

"_Sara!!_" both Nick and Greg shout when you say nothing.

A voice travels up from downstairs. It's Warrick. "Is everything alright? I'm not gonna have to come up there and perform anyone's last rights, am I?"

"We're fine!" you yell back.

"No, we're not," Nick mutters. "I'm glad this is so amusing for you, Sara."

"We're friends, Paul," you say finally, sad this little show has to end. Greg flashes you a desperate look, a prayerful look asking that you keep Paul from attacking him as well. You add with a light laugh, "And Greg is cool too. They're both my friends, my co-workers."

"Okay," Paul says simply, getting up and letting Nick's arms go. Nick pushes himself up on all fours, now able to look you in the eyes and glare with all his might. He's pissed. He's _really_ pissed you didn't do anything sooner about your crazy brother, Paul. You shrug at Nick, clearly not sorry because that was too damn funny to watch. Paul reaches out a hand to help Nick to his feet. Nick reluctantly takes the hand and is yanked up.

"I'm Paul. Sara's brother. I'm not crazy."

"Could've fooled me, Paul," Nick says, forcing a laugh. You see Nick's forehead crinkling with frustration, but he's calming down now. He shakes Paul's hand and says in kind, "I'm Nick."

"Hi, Nick," Paul smiles, then bounds out of the room before either man can say anything.

Greg looks at you and after a moment says, "Um, that's normal?"

You shrug, "Yeah. That's his way of checking out the competition. Nick must have frightened him a little."

"I frightened _him??_" Nick asks incredulously, now laughing more sincerely. "He scared the hell out of me!"

"Which was the point," you smile, sitting up and leaning against some pillows. "I'm sorry. That was funny for me, not for you. Paul used to attack all my potential suitors. Now that I'm thinking about it, Paul was the main reason my social life was so non-existent in high school. . .Anyway, just be glad Paul is in a good mood."

Both boys raise an eyebrow at that. Greg says, "That was Paul in a good mood?"

You purposely ignore his question, saying, "So? Breakfast?"

"Yep!" Greg replies enthusiastically, clearly thankful for the change in subject. "It's just donuts and coffee."

"And flowers," Nick chimes in bashfully. He rubs the back of his neck, "That was Warrick's idea. The flowers."

Wow, flowers too?

You put up a stoic front, even though all you really want is to go all girly and bawl your eyes out. "Thanks, guys. Really. Thank you. You didn't have to."

"Coffee?" Greg asks, his jitters under control now that he knows you approve of their get-well gift.

"Yeah," you nod. You sit up and Nick is by your side instantly, hooking his hands under your arm to support you. "I'm fine, Nick."

Nick gives you a knowing smile. "You're not gonna fight me, right? We stopped by to help you. Give you some food. Make you feel better. . ."

"I can walk," you insist, but your voice is teasing. You do let Nick help you out of bed. You notice Greg has already leaped away, no doubt going to make your coffee just the way you like it. He always gets it right.

You have to admit, the descent down the stairs is fairly comical. Nick trying to hold your elbow, you yanking it away. You swear you catch Catherine shoot you both an amused grin.

Once you reach the kitchen, Warrick stands to give you a hug. He also gives you a confused look, wondering what happened upstairs. You just shake your head no. He understands to leave it alone.

"We heard you were sick," he jokes instead.

"Just some lung thing. No big," you joke back.

"No big? Sara, from what I hear, it's pretty bad," Warrick frowns, suddenly not joking anymore. Catherine watches the boys fuss over you while you fuss back and you can't help but glance her way a few times for help. She just shakes her head, winking as if to say, "You're not getting any help from me!"

The scene eventually does settle down and you all partake in the coffee and donuts. Paul meanders about the house, but for the most part, he hangs back. Too much testosterone for him, or something. He eyes Warrick a few times, clearly intimidated. Whenever he catches Nick's gaze, however, he grins widely. Nick smiles uncomfortably in return. Maybe you'll tell Nick later that Paul has unofficially chosen him as his new wrestling buddy.

Greg jokes, as would be normal operating procedure, but you see him keeping close tabs on Paul. At first you think it's because Greg is afraid of being 'attacked by your crazy brother'. When Greg encourages Paul to join the table, though, you realize Greg was just looking out for Paul.

"C'mon," Greg waves at your brother. "You like donuts, right?"

Paul squints his eyes suspiciously, that nose of his scrunching like yours does and for a moment, it's like looking in a mirror. You really do have the same nose, you think. Paul shrugs, then asks, "Can I sit next to Nick?"

You look at Nick, who clearly has reservations, but he slides over anyway and says, "Sure, Paul. Sit right here."

Paul takes his seat, glances up at you and smiles shyly. He keeps his arms hugged close to his sides, careful not to invade Nick's space. You can tell Paul is venturing into uncharted territory here. Paul didn't have real friends back home. He couldn't keep them. As a child, friends came and went like the seasons. As an adult, friends were nearly non-existent.

Now he was here with your friends, your co-workers and getting along better than you could have ever imagined. He's being accepted amongst this group of seemingly normal, educated people and you know that surprises him.

You didn't believe him all those weeks ago, when he said he could make friends here, but he's doing it. He's trying and he's doing it.

The chatter around the table continues. Catherine pours your brother coffee, lecturing that it'll be hot and to be careful while drinking it. Warrick talks sports with him, as if your brother really cares who won what game the other night. Greg shows off his ability to toss up a donut hole in the air and catch it in his mouth. Paul watches with fascination probably wishing he could do the same. Nick grows more comfortable, patting Paul on the shoulder occasionally while talking.

Paul has friends. You smile.

For the moment, you don't have to worry about him. You really don't have to worry and that relieves you of a great burden.

For the moment, your brother will do just fine.

-----------------------------------

"Lindsey? I thought we talked about using the stove when I'm not. . ."

Catherine stops at the bottom of the stairs and looks into the family room. You and Lindsey are sitting on the couch, both holding plates. You are mid-bite, staring at Catherine with one quirked eyebrow. You imagine Lindsey is also giving Cath a funny stare. You don't blame her. Although, you're fairly certain you're enjoying this show more than the younger woman.

You start chewing now, your mouth curling up into a grin. Your eyes never leave hers. It finally seems to dawn on Catherine that something is funny. About her.

"Mom, c'mon," Lindsey groans. "Cover up, will you? If Paul wakes up, he'll have a heart attack.."

Catherine finally glances down to find her robe is still open, her makeshift pajama ensemble open to all the world. She must've grabbed the robe in her haste to chastise Lindsey for cooking, but forgot to tie it. You'd like to applaud her for her absentmindedness, as you are getting a very nice view, but you wisely stay quiet. She all too soon closes the robe hastily, covering her little boxer shorts and spaghetti strap tank top. A top that is barely concealing her assets, you might add.

You almost want to scold yourself for enjoying this so much, but not even you can deny the hotness that is Catherine Willows.

You purse your lips before stuffing another bite of your meal in your mouth. You try to be as serious as possible as you comment, "Pink. It's a good color on you."

"Uh, yeah, so you cooked?" Catherine says, now averting her eyes to Lindsey. Her ears are glowing a nice crimson. A bashful Catherine. Now that's something you don't see everyday.

"I didn't touch the stove and Sara insisted that she cook something, even though I told her you wouldn't like that," Lindsey reports, managing to keep most of her tone short of sarcastic.

Catherine folds her arms across her chest, now casting her scolding eyes on you, "Well, my daughter is right about one thing. You're supposed to be resting, Sara."

"I've been resting ever since the guys left," you shrug. "I'm tired of resting." You then add thoughtfully, "I'm also tired of coughing. And coughing. And coughing. . ."

"Okay, I get it, smartass."

"Cath, language," you scold playfully, using your fork to point at her daughter.

"I hear worse at school," Lindsey chimes in a little too proudly, you think. Catherine rolls her eyes and returns her attention to you.

"You still could've woken me," she says, a bit perturbed. "I have been doing this cooking thing for a while now. It wouldn't have been a problem."

You put another bite of food in your mouth, thus keeping you from answering. You're also fighting another grin. She knows that you're playing with her and you know she doesn't like it. Catherine shoots you another glare, before turning to Lindsey and asking, "What are you eating anyway?"

"Vegetable omelettes," Lindsey replies, then finishes off her plate.

Catherine widens her eyes in surprise. "You're eating vegetables?" Then another thought hits her as she turns to you,"You got my daughter to eat vegetables?"

"I informed her of the health benefits, yes," you half grin at her, your plate now empty as well. You see she is about to ask a question, but you already know the answer and beat her to the punch. "And before you ask, yes I eat eggs. You may not know this, but there are four main types of vegetarians."

Catherine rolls her eyes as if to say, _Oh boy. Here she goes_. You ignore her.

You hold up one finger to begin counting them off, "Vegan, who swears off all things animals. Ovo vegetarians, who eat eggs but not meat or dairy products . Lacto vegetarian, people who drink milk. . ."

"But don't eat egg or meat products. Okay, vegan lesson over," she says, smiling herself. "You're an ovo vegetarian then?"

"No," you shake your head.

"But you just said they eat eggs and nothing else," she argues.

"You didn't let me finish. The last kind of vegetarian is lacto-ovo," you grin widely now. "Can you guess what that means?"

Catherine's daughter cuts her off before she can give her reply.

"You like eggs and milk, but not meat," Lindsey answers smartly. You can tell it's not too often Lindsey has the chance to one up Cath. You think she's enjoying it way too much, but you're quick to join in on the teasing.

"She's got your brain, Cath," you say tauntingly, before suppressing a mixture of laughter and coughing. Unable to redeem her pride, Catherine just reaches over and snatches your empty plates from your hands. Then, she stalks away.

Okay, now you feel bad. Only a little, but just enough to rise from the couch and follow her into the kitchen and apologize. As you get closer, however, you slow your movements. She's by the sink washing the dishes and somehow that sight has you in complete awe.

You've kinda always wondered what it would be like to be a mom. Working overtime, sending kids off to school, making time for a personal life. Hell, having a personal life as a completely self-sufficient individual is hard enough. You can't imagine how Catherine manages to get by on her own, how she has managed for the last couple of years. Not that Eddie was that much of a help alive, but still, his death was damaging.

You watch her and think, forget awe. You _envy_ her. You envy her strength and determination. You admire her grace and forgiveness. Her ability to get on with life, to live even after all the tragedy that she has witnessed. You're in love with. . .

Whoa. Hold the phone. How did you get to love? More importantly, how do you know that you're _in love_ with anyone or anything? You're not in love.

God, the denial you're in is really quite comical.

You feel that annoying tickle sensation in your throat and curse your misfortune. You'd like to stand here and observe for a little while longer, but your suppressed coughing gives you away.

"You're supposed to cough, Sara. It's normal," she tells you without turning around. You groan out of disgust. She looks up from washing the dishes and adds, "Coughing clears up the lungs."

"Doesn't make my throat hurt less," you complain, falling into a chair at the table. You mess with some loose fabric on your cast, trying to ignore where your last thought process took you. You can't be in love. You don't have the time. Deny, deny, deny. Focus on other things, you say to yourself, but really your only focus is on her.

You smile at her. "I, uh, didn't mean to tease you that much in there. It's just, you make it so easy."

"Har, har," she says, rolling her eyes, finished with the dishes and drying her hands. She sits at the table across from you and attempts to defend herself, "Lindsey only beat me to the answer because I had just woken up. Sleep deprivation, lack of oxygen to the brain. Something like that."

"Uh-huh," you nod, fighting another grin. "You're not good at bullshitting."

"No, I'm not," she admits, smiling sheepishly. "Maybe I was still flustered from the robe incident. That is about as close to 'naked in front of co-worker' as I have ever been."

You can't help but smirk. "Is that so?"

She rolls her eyes at you again and amends, "I mean, when I wasn't a stripper...shut up. You know what I meant."

You laugh lightly, before you both grow silent. The quiet racket of the television filters into the room providing the only noise.

Time passes, you think. You're not too sure how much time goes by, but it must be moving. The seconds must be ticking away, but you're not sure. The two of you have been looking at each other. A comfortable gawking, if you will. As much as your mind has been screaming at you that even looking at her is wrong, nothing in those last few moments has felt wrong. In fact, it was damn near close to perfect.

Perfect. Such a dangerous word. Still, you can't help but use it. This moment, the days leading up to this moment have been damn near close to perfect. Unfortunately, this moment will end soon. It's a sad truth. You don't know when, but it will come to an end and after that, you just don't know.

You finally notice that Catherine's gaze is thoughtful, warm.

You quirk your eyebrow again, this time out intrigue, not amusement. You ask softly, "Cath? What are you thinking?"

She smiles, then replies, "I'm thinking that maybe things are perfect, just the way the are."

Perfect. It would seem you're both thinking the same thoughts, feeling the same feelings. Perfect.

Unfortunately, you know from past experience that perfect moments such as this can turn awkward real fast. You'd like to prevent that, so you begrudgingly decide to end this perfect quiesce on your terms. Clearing your throat, you suggest lightly, "Shift starts soon. You don't want to be late."

She nods, knowing that you are right. She should probably get ready for work, but you find that she doesn't make much effort to move. She is still watching you. You find that you are still watching her. You think that maybe she likes this just as much as you do and best yet, nothing about this feels awkward. It feels right.

Maybe you can deny your growing feelings for Catherine, but that doesn't mean you can't enjoy this. She wants to be in this moment just as much as you do, this you know for sure. You can both enjoy this.

Hmm. Maybe work can wait for a little while. You want things to be perfect for just a few seconds more.

To be continued. . .


	9. Thoughts

Disclaimer: not mine

Author's Notes: Sorry for the delay, again. RL getting in the way. How about a longer chapter to make up for it?

**Part Nine**

**Thoughts**

Stir crazy.

You are most definitely stir crazy. Ten days have passed. Ten freakin' days. You vaguely remember your elementary school days; fellow classmates out for at least a week because of the chicken pox or pneumonia. You are now well over a week in terms of recovery time. Way too long. You want to go back to work.

The problem is, Catherine has you on some kind of house arrest now. You literally lost your lunch yesterday and it scared her. She even took the night off to stay with you (which you both had a nice argument over).

She's downstairs now, preparing a pullout couch in the den for Paul. It's where he sleeps since you've taken over the guest bed.

Surprisingly, Paul is being rather understanding of your predicament. He's trying to accommodate you, help out. It's just another change you see in Paul. You can't help but wonder if Paul's transformation, his maturity is just a fluke. You're wondering how long it'll be before the Paul you knew resurfaces.

Heh. You always were the cynic.

"Sara?"

You lift your head from your pillow. Well, speak of the devil. You motion with your head, signaling Paul can enter. It's one of the many things Catherine has been teaching him. To ask permission before entering a room. Naturally, these lessons only really came about after Paul invaded Lindsey's room one night without knocking. The scream that teenager let loose was one that could be heard around the world. Paul cowered in a corner for about an hour, he was so embarrassed.

"I wanted to talk," Paul says, slowly walking in. His steps are uncertain, he's afraid of something.

You sit up now, concerned. "What's up?"

He sits on the edge of your bed, plays with his socked feet then smiles shyly. "I was reading with Lindsey. She reads these mystery novels and she says I'm good at reading them. It got me thinking. . .I was thinking I could finish school. I never finished."

Your eyes widen a bit. "Oh, um. School. No, you never finished."

Paul frowns. "You don't think it's a good idea. I knew you wouldn't. . ."

"Paul, hold on. I didn't say that," you smile shyly yourself. "School is an adjustment. You have to consider everything. The environment, the teachers, the students."

Paul sighs. "Yeah, I know. I thought of that."

Paul was pulled from school in the tenth grade. He got into way too many fights with the other kids. Most of the kids deserved it, of course. They teased Paul relentlessly, but the school had finally had enough and so had the parents. His record followed him everywhere. No other school wanted him.

Going back to school doesn't seem like a good idea, but your judgments are clouded with worry and fear.

See, you've been learning too. Catherine has been quick to point out when you're too hard with Paul. She doesn't yell, she just reminds you. She reminds you that Paul is 31-years-old and quite capable of making decisions for himself.

It's still hard for you to change, though. You've been very protective of your brother all your life, you don't know any other way. Paul, however, has grown. He is grown and while it may have taken him many more years to get here, he needs what other humans need. He needs you to support him when he makes a decision for himself.

"There are other ways," you say finally. He looks up at you, a glimmer of hope on his face. "You don't have to go back to a public school. You can get a tutor, earn your GED that way."

He repeats, "GED? That means I could get a job?"

"A job too, huh?" you say. First school, now a job. You breathe in deep before replying warily, "Yeah, a job. It's easier to get a job if you have a GED."

Paul grins now. He scratches at his beard (which you finally convinced him to at least trim) and you can see the wheels turning around in his mind. He says enthusiastically, "I'm going to tell Catherine."

He really loves her, you think.

"She'll be happy to hear it," you say back, as he stands. He's a bit wobbly on his feet, he's so happy.

He looks at you again, "Hey, Sara?"

"Yeah?"

"How much longer do you think you'll be sick?" Paul asks, his expression never more serious.

"Uh, well," you laugh. "I don't think I can give you an estimate, why?"

"I like it here," he says simply. "I like Catherine here. If you're sick, she's around more."

"Oh," you reply, watching Paul skip out of the room to share his school aspirations with Catherine. You shake your head, unable to stop grinning. For a moment, you thought that maybe Paul was concerned for your health. No, he was concerned that he would see less of Catherine.

After a moment of thinking about it, you find that you have the same concern deep within you. When you get better, you'll have to go home. You, too, will see less of Catherine.

"Yeah, Paul, I like having Catherine here too," you whisper to yourself.

"Hey, Sara. How's your arm?"

Your head snaps up in fear. How long had she been standing there? Did she hear what you just said? You force a smile, "Great. I don't think I'll need the pain meds tonight."

"Okay," Catherine says, shaking the medicine bottle already in hand. She strides in, her gait casual. "Paul tells me he wants to go to school again."

You nod. "Yeah. He wants a job. I guess he's looking to be more self sufficient, I dunno. It's kinda scary."

"Why?" Catherine asks. "It's what people do. They get jobs. They fend for themselves."

"This is Paul," you tell her. "He's. . .he's. . ."

"Different," Catherine finishes for you. "Yeah, he's different. He's also smart, Sara. I was listening to him read to Lindsey and I never saw him so relaxed. He read those words with such ease."

"Hey, I'm trying to support him, okay? This isn't easy for me," you say, chuckling a little bit to showcase your discomfort. "I've been making his decisions for him for so long. Kind of a hard habit to break."

Catherine pats your leg and says, "Well, I'm sure Paul appreciates your newfound faith in him." She goes to stand, but you grab her hand. She looks back at you and says, "You okay, Sara?"

"Fine, I just wanted to say thanks. For everything," you say quietly. "I mean, no one has ever connected with Paul like you have. I feel like I owe you something."

"No thanks are necessary, Sara," Catherine smiles, her fingers interlacing with yours. Her thumb making small circles on your skin. Her touch makes your eyes flutter closed involuntarily and when you open them again, she's still smiling. She lets you go and goes to leave.

She pauses in the doorway first, saying, "By the way? I like having you here too."

She's gone before you can reply.

---------------------------------

You're alone today.

You meandered about the house trying to pass the time, but that tuckered you out. There was nothing on tv, so you've confined yourself to the bed. You're alone today.

The entire time you've been here, someone else has been here with you . Whether it be Paul or Lindsey or Catherine's mother, Lily, someone was always here. Well, today you're alone.

Lindsey's agricultural club was going on a field trip to a botanical garden. The teacher, who needed to fill seats on the bus anyway, agreed to let Paul be a 'chaperone'. It was the only way to allow an adult to go. Lily, of course, was the real chaperone.

So, yeah, they're off having fun with plants. The nerd in you would've liked to have gone too. As for Catherine not being around?

Ecklie had called. Catherine went in early, which you're not entirely happy about. Something having to do with dayshift supervisor needing to tend to a family emergency. You don't really know the details nor do you care. You just know that the house will be quite empty seeing how everyone's gone. Most importantly, Catherine is gone.

Like you, Catherine was none too pleased with the situation. She didn't want to leave you alone.

"I'll give you a full update on what happens, okay?" she promised you before she was out the door. "Every detail. Every case that passes over my desk."

"Okay," you had said. You hope your voice didn't sound as pathetic as you felt.

Lying on the guest bed, listening to the house creak and moan, you already begin to wonder what cases you're missing out on. Okay, enough of that. Think about something else. Think about the house.

It's empty.

Damn it, now you're bored. When Catherine is here, she refuses to leave your side for more than ten minutes or so. At first it was annoying, but eventually you grew accustomed to her persistent fussing. She talked about everything from Lindsey's grades in school to why the sky was blue. Now she's not here and you miss her more than you should and damn it, now you're alone. It's quiet.

A thought enters your mind, but really, do you want to go there? More idle minutes pass and you ultimately decide that you're just bored enough to find out.

You lean over to the nightstand, grab your cellphone and hit '1' on your speed dial. He picks up immediately.

"Sara!" Greg is way too excited to hear from you, you think.

"Hey, Greg," you reply, your voice sounding a bit hoarse. You cough a little and continue, "What's up?"

"Oh, nothing really. I was just grabbing a bite to eat, but food can wait. You wanna talk? We can talk." He's rambling and it's sorta cute. "How are you feeling? Is Cath there? Do you need food? I can bring over some food before shift."

Now_ that_ is an idea.

You tell Greg what you would like to eat and within the hour, he's parking his car out on the driveway. You instructed him to enter through the garage, which Catherine left open in her rush to get out. A spare key rests under the mat by the door and that's how he gets in. You can hear him rustling around in the kitchen and you hope he's not making a mess. He finds his way up the steps, calling out, "Hey, Sara! What room you in?"

"I'm in here!" you call back. Moments later he pops in and grins at you, a couple of brown bags filled with fruits and veggies. He even boasts proudly how he remembered some Ranch dressing for dipping. You think you might be drooling judging by the way he laughs at you. Real food. You're going to eat some real food. You find the baby carrots and gush, "This is going to be great. Cath has had me on the jello diet."

"Ouch," Greg says with a grin. He hands the dressing to you, which you take eagerly. "Well, it's a good thing you called me then." There's a hint of surprise in his voice. Yeah, you're kinda surprised you called him too.

You both eat in silence for a while, stuffing your faces until your stomachs are satisfied enough to talk. You swallow, then glance up at your friend. "So, is the lab getting by without me?"

"Sara, you say that as if you decided to go on vacation or something," Greg says, a frown deepening with each word.

"You know what I meant," you tell him sternly. You don't like acknowledging that you're injured. Mostly because you're embarrassed. You've gone days without sleep before. Your diet could be better. You've even ignored your health on occasion, but not to the point of grievous viral infections that clog up your lungs. Not to mention, falling through a floor just makes you feel like an idiot.

After a moment's contemplation, you say, "Greg. Could you do me a favor?"

"Anything," he says quickly, leaning forward to hear your request.

You smile. "Be my eyes and ears, okay? I'm going crazy not knowing what's going on, you know?"

"Sweet, I've always wanted to be a spy," he says. He rubs his hands together mischievously. Okay, now _that_ worries you.

"I'm talking about the cases, Greg, not the latest office gossip," you clarify. "Cath said she would keep me up to date, but. . ."

"It's cool, I get it," Greg says to you. He's still grinning though, which makes you feel just a bit uneasy. "Still, any gossip and I'm all over it. I'll call you on the hour every hour, if I have to."

Now you're really scared. You shake your head, your voice wavering in suspicion. "Uh, Greg. That's not really necessary. . ."

"No, it's cool! I'll give you all the dirt, as if you were there to witness it yourself," he insists. You can't tell if he's joking anymore. You really, really hope he's joking.

Time passes slowly now, food disappears and stomachs reach their total capacity. You lean back into the pillows, a happy sigh escaping as you taste the remnants of ranch dressing in your mouth. You open your eyes and see Greg is just as satisfied as he stretches out on the bed next to you. He sees you watching him and grins.

He says, "It's a big bed."

You roll your eyes.

"No, really. It's a big bed for a guest bed," he says.

You look at it. It's a queen size, you suspect. Not that you really care. Some people have big beds in their guestrooms. You turn back to him. "Your point?"

He waggles his eyes at you. "Big enough for two people. Two people who clearly have the hots for each other." He's speaking to you in a tone that suggests you should already know this.

You cough a little, then ask for clarification, "Are you talking about. . .Catherine? Me and Catherine?"

"Yeah, duh. Who else would I be talking about?" Greg says, looking at you like you have two heads.

"Well, your name comes to mind," you smile at him sweetly.

"While I would love to crawl under these sheets next to you right now, I know I wouldn't have a chance against Cath," Greg teases. His voice is almost sing song as he declares, "She's got the hots for you!"

"Catherine does not have 'the hots' for me," you argue back. A tickle in your throat keeps you from saying more and the coughing that follows is inevitable. Greg immediately tones down his teasing. He jumps up from the bed to fetch you some water, now in Greg The Hero mode. You manage to stop coughing and call him back. "No. No, it's okay. I'm done."

"You sure?" Greg asks, one foot out the door.

"I'm fine," you insist. "Just a bit of coughing."

"Okay," Greg says. He sits back down next to you, his impish eyes lighting up again. "Look, Sara. I don't mean to give you a hard time, but have you ever wondered _why_ Catherine offered to let you stay here?"

He never quits, you think.

"She's my friend," you respond confidently.

Greg shakes his head, clearly exasperated. "I think it's more than that."

"You_think_ way too much," you retort.

Greg now gives you a very curious look. "Sara, why are you fighting this?"

You laugh lightly, "Because what you're saying is stupid, okay? Besides, Paul suggested to Catherine that I stay here. It only made sense seeing how Lindsey watches Paul for me anyway."

Greg squints his eyes at you. He doesn't want to give up on this. "Okay, you win for now. Just one last thing, Sara, then I'll drop it for good."

You sigh, "Okay, what?"

His voice is totally deadpan as he says, "Admit it. The thought of you and Catherine is totally hot."

You waste no time smacking him with your pillow.

Greg snickers relentlessly and you do everything in your power to ignore him, but there are other things you can't fully deny. Greg is right. He is right and you _hate_ that he's right.

What you feel for Catherine is definitely more than just friends. You felt the change after you fell through that floor at the crime scene; when Catherine held your hand and begged for you to hold on for her. You felt the change later at the hospital, again with her hand in yours. When she grazed your cheek and asked if you were with her.

Yeah, you were most certainly with her. You wanted nothing more than to be with her at that very moment and with each passing day, that feeling is getting harder and harder to ignore.

You can't blame medication or pneumonia or any other outside forces for these beautifully strange feelings coursing through you. You wanted desperately to find a connection between you and Catherine. You had settled on Paul being the connector, the driving force that brought you and Catherine together. Well, maybe his sudden predicament was a factor, but not the primary one. What bonds you to Catherine is not any one thing or any one event.

What bonds you to Catherine is you.

"Sara?"

Greg is calling you, but it's as if you can't hear him.

Your ribs hurt now. Well, your whole body hurts. Your throat hurts. Your eyes hurt. Everything hurts and you think you might cry, but you don't. You have turned away from Greg and want nothing more in the world than to be pissed off at him. Pissed that he even mentioned Catherine and the opportunity that can never happen. Except, you feel him lean up alongside you and he wraps his arms around you in an awkward embrace. He whispers in your hair, "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"You didn't know what?" you ask softly.

You can hear his smile when he says, "That you fell so hard for her."

"Greg, please," you beg.

"I know, I know," he mumbles against your shoulder. "Little Miss Denial here, trying to convince the world she's not in lust or in love or whatever this is. I get it. You don't have to tell me or anyone."

He's trying to joke with you and it does make you chuckle briefly, but you're still sad. You're sad because Greg is practically your best friend. You don't share much of your life with him at all and you bet that hurts him. You haven't been able to share your life with anyone completely.

"Greg, I . . ." you start to say, but he shakes his head.

"You're tired," he says simply, but something about the way he says it gives you reason enough to believe that he understands what you want. You'll have all the time in the world to talk later.

He gently moves you both until you're in a more comfortable position, your head resting on his shoulder. Your arm draping over his chest, the beat of his heart lethargic and comforting. After a few more moments pass, you can feel him chuckle before the sound even leaves his lips. "You haven't let me hold you in a long time."

"I know. I'm sorry," you mumble into his shirt.

Greg gives you a much more gentle squeeze. "We'll get her, Sara. Cath will have no choice but to succumb to your obvious charm."

You can't help but laugh. He always seems to find a way to make you laugh. He strokes your hair as you close your eyes to rest. Sometimes, Greg is the sweetest man you've ever known.

He holds you until he has to leave for work.

---------------------------------

Draw Two.

You begrudgingly take two cards off the pile and then add them to your already full deck of cards. Yes. You said deck. You think that it's quite possible that the entire UNO collection is in your hands right now. Which, by the way, seems ridiculous because Nick keeps pulling all these Draw Twos and Draw Fours from out of his ass. If you have all the cards, how is he still able to smite you with all these penalties?

"Uno," Paul says.

"Again, bro?" Nick says, amazed. He looks at you, holding a mere two cards. "I think Paul is gonna win again."

"I'm good," Paul beams. "It's the only game we played at the home."

The home. Paul calls the mental hospital 'the home' now. You're not sure why, but lately, he's been referring back to it. Remembering it. Funny thing is, he only tells you the memories that made him happy. Like this one. He played UNO for hours with other patients. It was all they had.

You've tried asking Paul what it was like at the mental hospital. Asking doesn't usually get you anywhere, however. He only offers up information when he wants to. He's still upset you left him there in the first place, you suppose.

Nick relinquishes a card of his own and proclaims, "Uno."

It's really a game between Nick and Paul (who each have one card). Of course, with your plethora of cards, you now have the power to manipulate the game a bit. You double up two Skip cards, which brings it back to you.

"Nice, Sara. Nice," Nick mutters, gripping his last card expectantly. You can tell he wants to win. He hasn't won yet.

"Yeah, don't tease," Paul insists. You think Nick's competitiveness has brought out a somewhat ugly side to your brother. Paul wants to win just as badly, if not more than Nick.

"Okay, sorry," you smile at them. You throw down a yellow nine.

"I win!" Paul shouts, dropping down a yellow zero.

"Damn it," Nick groans. He reveals his card, which was also yellow. He smirks at you, claiming, "You helped him out cuz he's your brother. You both have been conspiring against me."

"Nick, c'mon. How was I to know what he had?" you say, pursing your lips together to keep from laughing at him.

"Brother-sister telepathy, I dunno," Nick jokes.

"I'm the best," Paul announces, then jumps up from the table. "I'm gonna get a drink."

"I think I want one too, buddy," Nick rises as well. You watch him follow Paul into the kitchen. You're quite happy that Nick has accepted the role as older brother. Considering how Paul introduced himself, you're surprised Nick took to Paul so quickly.

Paul has started forming relationships with your friends, relationships that could blossom into something more lasting, more healing. You want ever so badly for these relationships to last. You want Paul to know what it's like to have real friends.

"So, how's the game?" Greg enters the dining room, sitting in an empty chair.

"I totally suck at UNO," you proclaim somewhat proudly. "Paul isn't going nuts, if that was your real question."

"Wasn't trying to imply that," Greg laughs uncomfortably. "Although, the way he tackle-hugged Nick when we arrived did alarm me."

"About you guys stopping by," you say. "Thanks, but really, Paul and I would've been fine on our own."

"Well, we figured you would be bored to tears seeing how Cath and Linds are outta town with Lily and Sam," Greg shrugs. "Besides, you're still sicky and icky. You need a couple of strong men around to look after you."

"I don't _need_ anyone," you insist. "Certainly don't need you two supposedly strong men. I'm gonna see the doctor in a few days anyway and he's going to say that I'm fine."

"Yeah, yeah. You're fine. You're always fine," Greg nods, his tone clearly sarcastic. He then smiles impishly and confesses, "I will admit, though, I only came over because Cath is gone. Thought I'd give myself a feasible chance at asking you out to dinner. You know, with the competition nowhere in sight."

"Greg, for the last time, Catherine and I are not happening," you tell him sternly. "It can't happen."

"So you admit you want it to happen?"

"Greg," you growl. "Drop it."

Nick returns, ending the argument with Greg for now. He sits with some water. "Paul went upstairs. He said he wanted to give me a break from losing."

You grin. "He's generous like that."

"What were you two talking about?" Nick asks curiously.

"Nothing," you say promptly, shooting Greg a look to keep his mouth shut. He doesn't take the hint.

"Actually, I was going to inform Sara of the latest office gossip," Greg says devilishly. He then gives you a pointed stare. "Like your case for instance."

"Do tell," you mumble unenthusiastically.

Greg forges on, "You know Termite House. You were there. . .obviously."

You quirk an eyebrow. Greg has started to affectionately call your case "Termite House", for obvious reasons. It was a house full of termites. He has, however, begun to talk about it like some otherworldly story. As if you falling through the floor was some out-of-body experience. He forgets to refer to your case with sensitivity and the moniker "Termite House" does grate your nerves a bit.

Greg coughs, knowing he should probably refrain from using the moniker in your presence.

He continues, "Anyway, a total bust. The owner, Mrs. Wright. She's dead, _but_ she was shot with a .22. (That'll make sense in a minute.) The bullet you found in the wall? We can't find the gun, but we know it's from a .22. See? The same kind of bullet found in Mrs. Wright's body is the same bullet in the wall. There are still no leads as to who soaked the whole house in water and even Grissom is having a hard time figuring out how _that_ many termites populated the entire house so quickly. . .Oh! And Catherine and Grissom went. . ."

Greg pauses, looks at Nick and says, "This is an A and B conversation, Nicky."

"Shut-up," Nick says, rolling his eyes. "If you wanted to tell Sara that Cath and Grissom had drinks after shift, then go right ahead. I already know all about it."

You feel your chest tighten. Usually, you would focus on work, but mention of Catherine has quickly erased any memory of what Greg just said about your case. Weakly, you repeat, "They had drinks together?"

Greg nods, confirming his story. "I know a buddy at the bar they went to. He says they talked for about an hour. Grissom ordered wine for her."

"Red or white?" Nick asks.

"What does it matter?" Greg asks, giving Nick a funny look.

"I guess it doesn't matter," Nick smiles to himself. "Red or white, they say, is good for your colon. I was just curious."

"You watching Discover Channel again, Nicky?" you ask playfully.

"60 minutes, actually," Nick jokes back. "In all seriousness, though, I tend to buy a lady red wine on a date. White wine for a casual affair. Something about the color red screams romance."

You roll your eyes. Nick was always the romantic out of all of you.

"Well, they drank red, but I don't think it means anything," Greg comments, as if trying to reassure you that Cath would never go for Grissom and she would totally date you instead. "Back in the day, they used to get drinks all the time. Maybe they're just rekindling an old tradition."

"I don't care if they have drinks, Greg," you say. "Grissom and Catherine are practically best friends. Best friends have drinks."

"Okay, so that wasn't juicy enough for you," Greg deduces. "Have I told you how Hodges is definitely in love with Henry?"

Nick snorts, "Hodges is not gay, Greg."

"I'm telling you. Hodges and Henry. Double H," Greg says, holding up a hand as if he's swearing in at court. "In love."

"He's not gay," Nick insists.

"So you're saying Henry is gay?" Greg asks, raising an eyebrow at Nick.

"I didn't say that either," Nick protests. "I just said Hodges is not gay."

"But you didn't say Henry wasn't," Greg points out.

Okay. You've had enough.

"Guys, I really don't care," you say, this time glaring at Greg. "I don't care who likes who, who had drinks with who, who is gay or not. Enough."

Greg pouts a little. "Fine. Party pooper."

In this brief moment of silence, your thoughts dwell on both Catherine and Grissom (even though you just proclaimed how much you didn't care about them nor what they did together). You wonder why Greg would even mention their little outing, unless it had something to do with you. He has been teasing you about 'being in love' with Catherine and he might be trying to make you jealous or something. Jealous that Catherine had drinks with a man you used to be in love with.

Actually, that's kinda of cruel of Greg, when one really thinks about it. To tease you about that.

Wait. Hold the phone. You have to back up for a second. Back to something Nick said.

You look at Nick, curious. "You know all about what, exactly?"

Nick stills suddenly, as if you just caught him doing something wrong. He stammers, "What?"

"Earlier. When Greg mentioned Cath and Gris having drinks. You told him that you knew all about it. You know all about what?"

Nick stays quiet, looking guilty. Your eyes widen because what you have suspected must be true. Nick knows all about. . . _it?_ You glare at Greg (for what has to be the umpteenth time today), and he suddenly looks like a little child with his hand caught in the cookie jar.

You ask as calmly as possible, "What did you tell Nick?" You pause, then decide to try a different tactic before Greg even has time to respond. You turn to Nick and ask, "What did Greg tell you?"

Nick chuckles uneasily. "Tell me? Sara, he didn't really tell me anything about. . .."

"Nick, shut-up!" Greg hisses, before looking at you. "Sara, it was an accident. . ."

"You told Nick," you say flatly. Shutting your eyes, you mumble to yourself in complete humiliation. "You told Nick? I can't believe this. . ."

"Sara," Greg pleads with you. When you look at him, all fire in your eyes, the younger man seems to freeze in place. He tries to smile at you, in way of an apology, and then the fire behind your eyes grows.

Nick decides to cut in, to defend Greg. "I wasn't going to say anything about you and Cath, Sara. Greg is the one with the big mouth. . ."

"There is no 'me and Cath'!" you bark, finally your simmering anger explodes.

"There is no Cath and I," Greg corrects your grammar.

"You. . .you little punk!" you growl at the former lab techie. He begins to sink lower in his seat. "I can't believe you told Nick that. . .that. . ."

"Now, Sara. He didn't exactly tell me anything," Nick steps in again. "It was an accident and it's not like I care or anything. I mean, I always thought you had a thing for Grissom, but whatever. Whatever makes you happy."

"Whatever makes me happy?" you repeat. "What would make me happy is to see Greg's head on a silver platter!"

"Sara, really?" Greg mumbles. "You want to kill me?"

You make a very threatening gesture with your cast covered arm (which actually looks downright silly, not frightening) and promise, "Greg, I'll kill you if the whole lab thinks that Catherine and I. . . ."

"It's just Nick, I swear," Greg says urgently, now backing up in his chair to get further away from you. "Besides, Nick only found out because Warrick and I were talking about you gals in the locker room. . ."

"_WHAT???_" you shout. You really shouldn't be shouting, but to say you're pissed is an understatement. Warrick of all people should know how you like to keep your private life _private._Talking about you and Cath in the locker room? With _Greg???_First you'll kill Greg. Then Warrick. Your hit list is starting to grow.

"First off, the idea of Catherine and I is a moot point. It's not happening," you say vehemently. "Secondly, why the hell were you and Warrick discussing _that_ in the locker room at work? This is how rumors get spread around. . ."

"Rumors?" Greg scoffs. "Sara, honey, sweetie pie, darling. This is more than rumor, alright? This is just an observation made by three of your closest friends, okay? We see the way you look at Catherine and frankly, she's been looking back. We're not blind."

Your gaze shifts between Greg and Nick and back again. Your lips quiver, as you process what Greg just said. You try to stay calm and say, "What do you mean Catherine's been looking back?"

"Well, I'll admit, until Greg brought it up, I didn't notice," Nick says, his face softening as he speaks. "But he's right. You and Catherine have changed around each other."

"I can't believe this," you mutter. "I can't believe you two think. . .Greg, I swear if this gets around the lab, I'll. . .I'll. . ."

You try to threaten some more, but your words are gibberish. The truth is, you're not sure what to say. You're flustered. Completely and utterly flustered.

No, that's not it. You're caught. Caught red-handed, that's what it is. If they have suspected you are falling for Catherine, that you _have_fallen for Catherine then Catherine. . .probably knows too. You stop stammering and lean back in your chair. Catherine probably knows too?

You feel all warmth drain from your entire body. You stare ahead, shock washing over you. What if Catherine knows? Hell, she has to know. She must know. She's a CSI, for Pete's sake! If Nick and Greg and Warrick noticed, then she noticed. Looking back on past events, you can't claim to have been subtle in your romantic musings. You can recall each time Catherine caught you staring at her or each time she heard you say something you didn't want to say aloud. She must know.

Nick raises an eyebrow. "Sara? You alright? You don't look so good."

"She's fine, Nicky," Greg grins triumphantly. "That right there, is a look of terror, of self-realization. Isn't that right, Sara?"

"Shut-up," you manage to squeak out.

Greg looks at Nick, then at you. Nick looks at you as you look back at him. Nick cracks a smile, which forces you to do so as well. You're smiling. You shouldn't be smiling.

Everyone knows about your crush on Catherine now. Everyone. Catherine doesn't know that _everyone else knows_ about your crush on her, but everyone knows about it. You shouldn't be smiling.

"Sara, it's not what you think," Nick says. He's noticed your silence and has opted to explain. "It was an accident. Bad timing and all. Greg wasn't going to tell me, not without your say-so."

"Warrick approached me. He asked me if I thought something was going on with you two," Greg explains. "I tried to play it cool, like I didn't understand what he was talking about. Only, he and Catherine have always been close and he just knew something was up. He knew that Catherine was acting different at work. He said the change happened right after you took up residence in her guest bed."

"Then I walked in," Nick jumps in. "I don't know what possessed me to hide, but I did. Warrick and Greg were trying to talk all quiet and I thought maybe, they were planning something. I wanted to know what, so when I got closer to listen in, that's when Greg blurted out you were in love with Catherine."

You feel your eyes simmering in anger again as you look at Greg. You twitch a little as you repeat through clenched teeth, "You said I was _in love_ with Catherine."

Your perturbed statement sounds more like a question and your ire is building up again. It would be one thing if _you_ said you were in love with Catherine, but frankly, you can't say for sure that you're in love with anyone. Attracted to Catherine, lusting after Catherine, sure. Love is not a word you throw around or use lightly, so hearing Greg toss it about the locker room at work only makes your skin crawl in irritation.

"I wouldn't say I blurted it out," Greg laughs nervously, eyeing you warily. "I just admitted to Warrick that I thought maybe something was up too, that's all. That maybe you and Cath were dancing around a thing."

You roll your eyes and involuntarily correct him. "There is no 'me and Cath'. There is no thing."

"Whatever," Greg sighs.

Nick sighs. "Look, Sara. We didn't come here to make you feel uncomfortable."

"Or to embarrass you," Greg says.

You snort in disbelief.

"And I have no problem with you liking Cath or whoever, okay?" Nick continues. "I want you to be happy."

"Or to mortify you," Greg adds some more.

"Okay, Greg," you say insistently. He never knows when to shut-up.

An uncomfortable silence follows, mostly because you want to be angry. It's just, you can never really be angry with Greg for too long and he only means well. They both mean well. They just want to see you happy. You sigh and admit, "I am mortified."

"So, is that an official confession?" Greg says, waggling his eyebrows. "We aren't just seeing things? You do find Catherine attractive, at least?"

You rub your eyes tiredly. The cat's out of the bag now, right? Why keep denying what Greg has so dutifully uncovered? Not to mention, both Nick and Warrick had their suspicions from the start and thanks to super sleuth Greg Sanders, both Nick and Warrick believe you're in love with Catherine too. So maybe it's time you stopped denying it.

You want to be more than Catherine's friend. Maybe you always have and maybe it's time to admit that to yourself wholeheartedly. You want to be more than Catherine's friend. You want more. Your stomach is beginning to churn.

You slowly rise from your seat, both Nick and Greg watch you without speaking. You tell them, "I, uh, feel a little sick. I think I should lie down for a while."

"Yeah, do that," Nick agrees. "It's been a long day."

"And I'm not really mad at you guys," you say with a loud sigh. "I'm not mad at you, okay?"

"Okay," Greg says.

You go to walk away, but pause by Greg for a moment. You lean down to his ear and whisper conspiratorially, "You never really asked if I found Catherine attractive, you know."

You stand straight again, looking down at him. He grins back up at you. "I'm asking now. Do you?"

You just smile at him.

It's all you can really do, to be honest. All you can do is smile.

To be continued. . .


	10. Doctor

Disclaimer: not mine.

Author's Notes: Again, a huge thank you for all the feedback and responses. They mean the world to me. 

**Part Ten**

**Doctor**

You knock on the door. No response. You knock again. Still nothing. You know he's in there, he's just ignoring you. 

Okay, you knew this would happen. You knew and you didn't take the necessary precautions. You didn't approach the subject with any kind of sensitivity or finesse. Now you have a problem. 

You could blame this on Lindsey, maybe. She's the one who gave you the idea in the first place. 

Oh, yeah, sure. Let's see if there's a psychiatrist in the area that could really figure out what's wrong with Paul. Yeah. Paul will like that idea a whole lot, Linds. 

Yeah,_not_.

The moment the word 'doctor' left your mouth, Paul went on a tirade. Before long, the two of you were participating in a shouting match. Each phrase louder than the last. Then, he was gone. 

Now you're here and you _knew_ this would happen. You simply knew. The thing is, you're really not sure what you could've done to prevent this. You could beat yourself up until the cows come home, but the truth is, there was gonna be no stopping Paul from being himself. 

You chance a glance at Lindsey and Lily. Lindsey meets your gaze and you shrug apologetically. Her deep frown only makes you shake involuntarily. Lindsey is annoyed. She's very (much like how her mother gets) annoyed. 

Great. Now you're convinced that Paul has somewhat sullied his relationship with Lindsey pulling this latest stunt. You hate that he's done that, because you want Paul to form solid relationships. He obviously can't achieve any success in that area behaving this way. He can't maintain relationships by disrupting their lives with childish antics. 

When you look at Lily, a chill races through you. Now you know where Catherine gets that killer stare. 

Unfortunately, Paul and Lily have been on shaky ground from the get go, so you know Lily will use this incident against you somehow. She'll report tonight's events to Catherine with a smile on her face. Catherine, she'll say. What did I tell you about him? Didn't I tell you he wasn't worth the trouble?

You frown at Lily, who glares back. You have to fix this and soon. You don't need Lily making matters worse. 

You return your gaze to the door; Lindsey's bedroom door to be more specific. Paul has locked himself inside her room. Again. 

You yelled, he got upset. Up the stairs he went, opened the first door he saw and locked himself inside. You wish you had the forethought to tackle him before he ran away. 

For Lindsey and Lily, his actions are an inconvenience. To you, it's simply commonplace and if this were your apartment, you'd let him cry it out for the next few hours. Only, this isn't your home. And you have both Lindsey and Lily staring you down and waiting on you to fix it. They're waiting on you to retrieve Paul from Lindsey's bedroom. It sucks because you're not sure what to do. 

Damn it. Paul is such an annoying brat sometimes. You just can't seem to get it through his thick skull that throwing himself into a room that's _not_ his is inconsiderate. 

You knock again, now feeling Lily's eyes burning a hole through the back of your skull. Gah! You can't think under this kind of pressure! 

It's not that Catherine's mother isn't tolerable most of the time, but she's made clear (on several occasions) that she's not thrilled Paul stays here. She'll purposely make a comment at dinner or she'll pull Catherine aside, but talk loud enough so you can hear. She doesn't like Paul and you can't tell if that's from years of a building mistrust in any man or if she simply doesn't like you. If she doesn't like you, she doesn't like Paul by default. 

It's not Lily's home, so whomever Catherine decides can stay here is not Lily's decision. However, she's still a Mom in every sense of the word. She's Catherine's mother and she has very little patience for Paul. Right now, she has very little patience for you. 

"He can't keep doing this, Sara," Lily says again. "He's locked himself inside Lindsey's room four times now." 

"I know," you repeat. "I'm sorry, but Paul doesn't listen to me like he used to." 

"I can call Mom. He listens to her," Lindsey suggests. She walks away before you can object. You can't keep calling Catherine at work every time Paul acts out. You can't deny, however, that Catherine seems to be the miracle cure for these situations. More often than not, Paul listens to Catherine. He doesn't listen to you like he used to. 

"Lindsey will have to go to bed soon and she won't sleep on the couch. Not even for Paul," Lily informs you pointedly. She orders, "Get him out of there, _please_."

Lily storms off. With her back to you, you finally roll your eyes. How Catherine deals with Lily on a daily basis, you'll never know. She nags, she hovers, she irritates. Paul isn't a fan of her either, you realize. Maybe now that Lily isn't parked outside the door, he'll want to come out. 

"Paul," you say. "Lindsey and Lily are gone. It's just you and me." 

Still no answer. Damn it. Now your patience is wearing thin. 

"Paul, I swear," you threaten hollowly. "Open this door right now. Catherine will be pissed if she finds Lindsey sleeping on the couch. Again." 

"I have the phone." Lindsey returns, holding the portable. "Should I call?" 

"Don't call yet," you plead. 

"I need my room, Sara."

"I know," you say for what has to be the umpteenth time tonight. 

"You know I don't mind sleeping downstairs, but my homework is in there this time," Lindsey reminds you. "I don't know what will piss Mom off more. That Paul locked himself in there again or that I didn't find some way to get my homework done." 

"Right, okay," you nod. You try a different tactic. "Paul, if you keep this up and Catherine finds out, she could kick us out. Do you want that? For Cath to make us pack our bags and leave?" 

Finally, a tentative "No" travels through the door. You smile in triumph. That got him. "Please open the door." 

The door opens and Paul stands there, eyes sad and mouth in a deep frown. He steps out and immediately apologizes, "I'm sorry." 

"It's okay, Paul," Lindsey says, while hastily entering her room and reclaiming her domain. 

"C'mon," you coax. "Downstairs." 

Once you reach the bottom, Paul scurries into the family room. He's not sure what to do, you think. Hell, you don't know what to do. 

Getting into arguments with Paul are so much more strenuous now. He has the tendency to fight back, as opposed to when he was child, he would just cower and look pitiful. You miss the old days; the days when your brother did as he was told because he had no other choice. Now he believes he has the choice to speak out against you and you're definitely not ready to give up that control. 

You're not ready for him to realize that he has the choice to defy you. 

You walk over to him, maybe to reach out and give him a quick hug, but he speaks before you can consider such a thing. 

"I just want to decide for myself." 

Okay, here goes something. 

You rub your eyes tiredly. "Paul, there are some decisions that you can't make for yourself, okay? This is something I need you to do for me. This is something I think will help you." 

"Doctors never helped before and they won't help now," Paul argues. "I don't need them." 

"Okay, what just happened upstairs? Not normal, Paul," you tell him. "_Normally_, people who have a disagreement don't run away like little children and lock themselves in other people's rooms. They talk things out like adults." 

"I am an adult," he says, plopping down on the couch. "You don't treat me like one." 

"Well first, you have to act like one," you say, sitting down next to him. "As much as I love Cath for taking care of you, she's not helping. She babies you and you let her baby you. Don't say that you don't either." 

Paul doesn't respond because he knows you're right. 

You sigh, "I'm not saying you can't enjoy spending time with her or anything, but a part of growing up is knowing when to say 'no' to a plate full of chocolate chips cookies, you understand?" 

"Sara," Paul says, almost laughing. "Who ever says no to a plate full of chocolate chip cookies?" 

"Okay, I didn't use that analogy very well," you admit with a smile. "What I'm trying to say is, you can't turn on the waterworks every time something doesn't go your way and expect Cath to round a corner with cookies to make you feel better. Does that make more sense?" 

Paul turns his head away from you and says, "No. No sense at all." 

You frown. Okay, now he's just being difficult. "I know you're not stupid, Paul and I know you understand what I'm trying to say."

"What I don't get is what cookies have to do with seeing a dumb doctor," he points out. "Why cookies?" 

You shut your eyes, frustrated. You mutter, "Forget the cookies. I don't even know why I mentioned them anymore. Point is, you're seeing a doctor. End of story." 

"No," he says defiantly, standing up. You go to stand with him, but with a strong hand he pushes you back down to the couch. You look at him, amazed at his audacity to even touch you, let alone push you away. 

"Paul, that's enough," you scold him. You go to stand again and again he pushes you back, this time grasping your shoulder as he does so. When he lets go, there are remnants of mild pain in his wake. He actually squeezed you fairly hard that time. He's never done that, you think. He's never pushed you or made motions to hurt you on purpose before. 

Well, not since that one time previously. When you decided to leave him in a mental hospital and head off to Vegas without him. That was the only time Paul ever hurt you, but that time was different. He was freaking out then, his actions weren't that much of a surprise. 

Him pushing you away now _is_ a surprise. He's in control of his emotions. He's fighting with you and standing his own ground. This time, his move to push you away is very intentional. 

"I said no," he repeats. "No doctor. I don't care what you think." 

You sigh, reaching out to grab Paul's arm. "Paul, please listen. . ." 

He slaps your hand away. 

You definitely have to yell at him this time. "Paul, for crying out loud! Stop it." 

Then he surprises you again. He lurches forward, both hands on your shoulders and he pushes. Pushes you off the couch and onto the floor. Before you can say anything, he's over top of you and holding you down by your shoulders. You struggle against him, but Paul is strong. You look at him, eyes widening in shock and say questioningly, "Paul? Paul? Let go. . ." 

It's hard to fight him, with one arm being in a cast and all. 

He's looking down at you. His harsh gaze renders you speechless and then he lets you go suddenly. He says, "Sara", softly and then quickly scoots away from you. It's as if he realizes that he might actually be hurting you. He backs away some more, what appears to be signs of shame creeping over his features. He then mutters, "Sorry."

You're both sitting on the floor, facing one another. He won't look at you and you don't know what to say to him. 

The action wasn't really violent, no. You don't think he intended to hurt you. His decision about this doctor, however, is perfectly clear. He looks at you with intense eyes. "I can get by without a doctor, Sara. I have been, ever since I found you. I won't go. You won't make me go." 

Apparently, you couldn't make him do anything if you tried. He's stronger than you. 

After a long moment, he stands to his feet and you watch him go. He disappears into the den, shutting the door behind him. 

You rub your shoulder now, the spot where Paul grabbed you, and that's when you realize it. The fear. There's a bubbling fear in your chest and you can't help but wonder. You wonder what will happen the day Paul realizes his own strength. The day he realizes that by using force, it's possible to get his way.

Hell, forget wonder. He already knows his strength. He knows how to fight. 

You stand on wobbly feet. You wonder about your mother and whether or not there really is a murder gene in your family. Not just whether or not it resides in you, but whether or not it resides in Paul. 

---------------------------------

"_Sara, please," he cried. He had been crying for hours, it felt like. He grabbed her arm again, pulled her close. "Please, I don't want to stay here. I want to go with you." _

His words haunt you sometimes. You remember how you treated him. You remember his tears and that memory. . .That memory hurts more than any wound you have ever suffered. Listening to Paul cry, it hurts. 

"_Sara! You can't leave me here!"_

Your eyes snap open. You look around the kitchen to find yourself still alone. Paul is asleep on the pull-out couch in the den. He's been there ever since . . .

How long have you been up? 

You don't know. Not sure you care either. His words haunt you sometimes. Sometimes you lose sleep over him. 

You lose sleep over Paul. 

The more days that pass, the more you realize he's a stranger to you. You remember telling Catherine that you knew Paul and that you knew how to handle him, but now you're not so sure you know him at all. Something is off with him, your last altercation clear proof of that.

Paul was in control and he knew it. He held you down using force. He held you down with a strength he's probably only just discovering. 

He's right. He is an adult. He's an adult man, with adult hands and adult strength. You hate how much he reminds you of Dad. It's just, he's not Dad and if you keep comparing Paul to your father, you'll start to fear Paul for more than just his supposed craziness. You'll fear him because he can hurt you. 

You hear the front door open. Catherine is home. 

Wow, Catherine is _home_. What time is it? Did you really stay up all night? 

"Hey," Catherine greets you, a hint of surprise in her voice. "Didn't think you'd be up this early."

"Actually, I was up all night," you say, smiling a little. You make an effort to make eye contact with her, trying to remain nonchalant. 

"Oh?" she says, squinting her eyes with concern. "Paul keep you up?" 

"I guess you could say that," you sigh, finding your gaze focusing in on the wall across the room. The flowerily border pattern has your rapt attention, swirls of blue and green mixing together. The world starts to blur and you realize you haven't blinked, you haven't breathed, you haven't moved in the last few minutes. 

"Do I have to ask?" 

You return to the land of the living, breathing in deeply and blinking your dry eyes. You zoned out. You always zone out around Catherine and she is always ticked at you for doing that. She feels you're ignoring her or avoiding her questions, but that's not really it. 

You're just trying to piece yourself back together, trying to figure out where to go and what to be. Right now, you're considering the fact that Paul is going to eventually revert back to his old self. He's going to be clingy and needy and helpless and he's going to be a full time job. You're considering Paul has a much darker side to himself. A place within his soul that had been untapped until now. 

You remember how easy it was back then to be so selfish; how easy it was to leave him behind. You remember the weight that lifted off your shoulders when the burden of taking care of Paul was passed on to someone else. 

"Sara, you with me?" 

You smile sheepishly, "I'm sorry. Paul and I. . .We had a bit of an argument last night. I guess that's why I stayed up. I was thinking. Lost track of time." 

"You stayed up all night?" she asks again, as if she didn't believe you the first time she asked. 

"Yeah," you say, nodding. Your gaze falls on the swirling green and blue pattern on the wall. It reminds you of finger paint. That used to be one of Paul's favorite activities as a kid. Finger paint. More and more, everything reminds you of him. 

Catherine is suddenly in your field of vision, sitting in the chair across from you. Looks like you're in for another round of talking. 

The kitchen has sorta become a discussion area of sorts. You and Catherine always seem to find yourselves here at some point during the day. Talking, drinking coffee. Laughing, discussing cases or just sitting in comfortable silence. This morning isn't necessarily as pleasant as all those other times, but you're glad she's home. You need advice. 

"So, is Paul asleep?" 

"Yeah."

"What did you fight about?" 

"I want him to see a psychiatrist. Find out if modern medicine has anything new to tell us about him," you say. "He doesn't want to go. He doesn't think he needs to go." 

"Okay," Catherine nods. "He's understandably upset, considering your history. He's probably afraid you'll pull another disappearing act on him. I think it's only natural for him to assume that." 

You shift uncomfortably in your seat. Catherine has the tendency to talk like she's working a case. That your decision to leave Paul all those years ago is a clear indicator of his current behavior. It's not that she isn't right, it's just the way she says it that leaves you feeling worse than before. She doesn't mean to make you feel worse, you don't think. She's just stating a fact. You left Paul behind. 

"Yeah," you nod. "I'm not sure what to do." 

Catherine chuckles to herself. "Well, I'm not sure I know either. It would seem forcing Paul to do something he doesn't want to do, would be like backing a wild animal up into a corner." 

She could say that again. 

"He wants school, he wants a job. Environments outside of home have always proved difficult for him. Maybe if he had some kind of therapy, anything to quell his nerves or anxiety, prospective employees wouldn't be so hesitant to hire him." 

"Prospective employees shouldn't judge Paul by his condition," Catherine reminds you. 

"I know that. Doesn't mean they won't," you say. You rub your eyes tiredly. You should get some sleep. "I dunno, Cath. I need to convince him that seeing a doctor will help." 

Catherine leans back in her chair. She suggests, "Try a compromise?" 

You look up at her, thoughtfully. "Like what?" 

She gives you a small, yet elfish smile. "How about you both go together. You'll see the same doctor, if he agrees to go. Maybe he's more afraid of going alone." 

"Excuse me?" you sputter. Usually, you like Catherine's ideas. This one, not so much. "I'm not crazy, Catherine. I don't need to see a doctor." 

Catherine's eyes narrow some, that small elfish smile growing a bit wider. "You know, Sara. That sounds exactly like something Paul would say." 

You fall silent, your earlier protest suddenly very ineffective. _That_ is what Paul said to you. Maybe not exactly in the same words, but essentially, that's what he said. That he didn't need a doctor. 

You frown. Catherine set up you with that whole 'compromise' business. She knew how angry you would get, suggesting that you see a psychiatrist too. 

"I know what you're doing," you tell her, your frown only deepening. "Don't think I don't know." 

Catherine releases a short chuckle. "What am I doing, Sara?" 

"You set me up. Made me understand Paul's point of view, but there's one little problem with your plan," you tell her. "Paul is actually crazy." 

Catherine tilts her head to the side. "Sara, you don't believe that. I know I don't believe that." 

No, you really don't believe that. You don't think Paul is crazy. At least, you'd like to think he's not. 

You feel yourself clamming up. Flashes of last night flood your memory. Paul grabbed you and pushed you away. Sure, anybody can do that when angry, but with Paul there's this other element to consider. He's not exactly of sound mind; he doesn't always think like an adult. 

Catherine sits back in her seat, arms folded. "What aren't you telling me, Sara? What else did Paul do?" 

You look at her. How is it she can read you so well?

She repeats when you don't respond, "What did he do?" 

What did Paul do? He did something strange, something unexpected. He put his hands on you, he pushed you away. He slapped your hand. You smile at Catherine and tell her, "Paul was just a bit more vocal than usual. He's learning to fight back. I guess I just wasn't prepared for that." 

She doesn't believe you. You can feel an argument coming on. One of those 'when are you going to learn to trust me, Sara?' arguments. You're too tired for that, but thankfully the doorbell saves you from any more exhausting talk. Catherine has reservations about answering the door, but eventually she does rise and leave you alone.

Looking over your shoulder, you see Lily walk in. 

Oh. Yay. What? It's only been since _last night _when Lily was here last? Catherine wasn't joking when she said,_"Honestly, if my mother didn't go home on occasion, I'd swear she still lives with me."_

Yeah. It's like Lily still lives here and she marches around this place like it belongs to her. You're not even sure you could describe Lily's behavior as overprotective. Overbearing or overzealous might be better adjectives.

You catch a brief glare of disapproval from Momma Lily. You shake your head. Maybe it's time you went to bed, left Lily to her own devices. You do feel kind of bad you're leaving Catherine alone with her, though. 

You get up and walk toward the stairs. You have no choice but to interact with Lily on the way. 

"Good morning," you tell her, forcing a half smile. 

"Sara," Lily nods in your direction, even sparing you a half smile in return. You're lucky to see her smile at all anymore. 

"Going to bed?" Catherine asks you. Her tone has softened and for now, you know you're safe from any further discussion about Paul. 

"Yeah," you say. 

Catherine motions for you to go on. "I meant to change the sheets yesterday, but I guess they can survive another day." 

You have to laugh to yourself. She changed those sheets not even three days ago. You're lucky to change your own sheets at home twice a month. 

Up the stairs you go and you're not even halfway up before you hear Lily hissing something at Catherine. Usually, you ignore her booing, but this time you're curious. You want to know what the hell is up Lily's ass today and why she has to take it out on her daughter so early in the morning. 

Okay, right. There was the thing with Paul last night locking himself in Lindsey's room, but you got him out of there. And it's not like you don't get it. You get it. She doesn't want Paul staying here nor does she even like him, but she could try to be a bit more understanding. Is that too much to ask? To try a little? 

You sneak back down the steps to eavesdrop. Thankfully, Lily and Catherine have moved to the kitchen. You can eavesdrop without being seen. . .you hope. 

"I just think there are other obligations in your life that are more important," you hear Lily say. "Sara and Paul have taken up all your time lately." 

"Mom, for Christ's sake," Catherine groans. "Are you mad we're not spending time together or something?" 

"I think you know what I'm saying, Catherine." 

Catherine speaks again, her tone softer. "Sara and Paul don't have anyone else. And believe me, it wasn't easy getting Sara to accept my help in the first place. It's not like we were great friends before all this happened. If she'd had it her way, she wouldn't be here." 

"Then why didn't you let her have her way?" Lily retorts. "Lindsey is your family. Your daughter should be your priority." 

"Lindsey is always number one." 

There's a pause, you suspect Catherine is thinking on more to say. You hear her sigh. "They've had a rough time of it, Mom. I mean, really rough. I want to show them that life is better than what they know. If that makes me a bad person, then I guess Hell will be welcoming me with open arms and a parade."

Another lull in the conversation. Maybe Catherine's words have gotten through? Probably not. 

Lily speaks again. "I'm sorry, Catherine. Listen, I am sorry. I'm just protective of you, you know that. I've always been able to sense trouble and I can't help but sense it with them." 

"You didn't sense trouble with Sam," Catherine remarks chillingly. "Then again, if you had, I wouldn't be here." 

"Catherine, don't talk like that," Lily huffs. "Excuse me for worrying."

"Mom, get to know Sara first before you judge her. I made that mistake once," Catherine tells her. "I regret it all the time."

Regret.

You make it back up the steps, crawl into bed and shut your eyes. Catherine isn't the only one who judged first, regretted later. You had pegged Catherine all wrong from the beginning. Not that she can't be bitchy at times or even pushy, but that person is mostly seen on the job. A 'very stressful, underpaid, full of problems' job. Hell, it's not like you're not bitchy or pushy on occasion.

The Catherine at work is completely different than the Catherine at home. The Catherine at home is sweet, caring, admirable. She's everything you knew she could be. Everything you hoped she was. It was that hope that propelled your desire to be her friend. 

Now you know the complete Catherine Willows and you wouldn't want to change a damn thing about her. 

"Sara?"

You sit up slowly in the bed, see Catherine in the doorway. You smile. "What's up?" 

"I think we need to talk," she says. 

Uh oh. You don't like that look on her face and you don't like her tone of voice. You search your mind, wondering what the hell you did in the last twenty minutes to tick her off. You can't think of anything. Oh, wait. Damn it. What the hell did Lily tell Catherine? More importantly, is Catherine really taking anything Lily said to heart? 

You watch Catherine enter the room, shut the door behind her. Why is she shutting the door? You swing your feet over the edge of the bed, watching her approach and then you notice the worry etched on her face. She's not angry, she's worried. 

"Sara, I'm not sure how to say this, so I'm just gonna get it out there," Catherine begins, sitting down next to you. 

You smile nervously. "I'm not gonna like this, am I?" 

"Hey, don't joke, please," she literally pleads. "I'm going to ask you again and tell me the truth. What else did Paul do last night?"

You try laughing it off again. This isn't something you want to discuss. "Catherine, I'm not sure there's anything to say. . ." 

"Sara," she says firmly. "Don't lie to me." 

Your nervous smile disappears. Okay, she's serious. Just tell her already. You try to talk as nonchalantly as possible. 

"Paul might've shoved me to the floor last night, while we argued. I'm not hurt or anything. Actually, Paul seemed just as surprised as me when he did it." 

Catherine folds her arms, studying you and maybe looking for some sign that you're lying. You may be playing down how much it affected you, but you are (mostly) telling her the truth. Paul did shove you to the floor. She tilts her head to the side, sighing deeply. "Why didn't you tell me? Why did my mother have to tell me?" 

Oh crap. Lily saw the fight. She saw Paul push you, which means she probably explained in great detail how it all went down. First he pushed, then he slapped your hand, then he grabbed you, pinned you down to the floor. Now Lily's comment about 'sensing trouble' makes, well, more sense. Not only did Paul scare you, he really gave Lily something to be afraid of as well. 

"I'm not sure what to say," you finally admit. "I guess I thought. . ." 

"You thought what, Sara?" Catherine says sharply. "I know my mother can be a bit dramatic, but from how she tells it, Paul got pretty rough with you. You tell me now if he hurt you." 

You squint your eyes. You see her real fears now. If Paul got violent with you, what's to say he won't go after Lindsey too? 

"Catherine, he would never hurt Lindsey," you say unwaveringly.

Catherine drops her head then, maybe a bit bashful you caught onto her fears so quickly. She looks up at you, then says, "Yeah, that did cross my mind, but that doesn't mean I don't care what he did to you. I want to know if he hurt you. Really hurt you." 

"Why? It was a one time thing and he showed remorse," you tell her, not liking where you think this conversation is heading. You think Catherine is implying that if Paul really hurt you, then it's time to take drastic action. 

"I want to know because I care, for the both of you," she insists. 

You know she cares. You still don't why she cares so much. 

"Paul not only pushed me, he grabbed me," you finally tell her. "He let go, once he realized what was going on, but he has only come at me physically one time before. I promise, it's not an everyday thing." 

Catherine gives a slight nod, maybe an indication that she believes what you say. She tentatively covers your hand with hers and she asks, voice barely audible, "But you're okay?" 

She keeps asking you that. 

You look in her eyes, suddenly her pupils are wide as oceans. All that worry, all that concern, all that fear is being directed at you. She really is that concerned for you. She really does care. You give a slight smile, "I promise, I'm fine. I'll get over. He will too." 

"Sara, I know you love Paul and I know you don't want to believe he could be violent," Catherine says, the words seem to be sticking to the roof of her mouth. She doesn't want to say these words, just like you don't want to think them. She continues, "But I think you need to consider that Paul can consciously hurt someone and I'm telling you this as a mother and a friend. If you can talk to Paul, get him to see that resorting to violence is wrong, maybe something like this won't happen again." 

Again. Maybe he's only attacked you twice in his lifetime, but he has been in other altercations. Mostly school related, with other people his age. There were maybe three incidents you could clearly remember Paul threw the first punch, but he was provoked! 

He was provoked, but that doesn't make it right. 

A thumb wipes a tear from your cheek. Catherine has reached over with her other hand, wiped the one tear that got away. You don't like crying. You especially don't like crying in front of other people. You blink quickly, hoping to rid yourself of the dreadful tears. You shake your head, "I'm sorry." 

"Don't be," Catherine says softly. 

You can't even look at her now. "He looks a lot like Dad and when he held me down, when he looked at me with those eyes. I just couldn't move. . ." 

"He's not your father, Sara," Catherine says firmly. 

"I know," you say quietly. "But what if. . .?" 

"It won't happen," Catherine shakes her head. She squeezes your hand tightly. "Hey, listen. Paul will never be like that." 

Your door suddenly flies open. 

"Sara, where is Cath. . .?" Paul stops his question short, spying both you and Catherine sitting on the bed. His eyes flit to your joined hands, then he shies away, looking in the opposite direction. He stammers, "Sorry. Forgot to knock. You're busy." 

"No, Paul. We're done talking," Catherine tells him, rising from the bed and letting go of your hand. She walks over to him, lifts his chin with a finger and smiles at him. "You hungry? Is that why you're looking for me?" 

He smiles shyly. "Yeah." 

"C'mon. What will it be today? Pancakes or waffles?" 

"Both?" he tries. 

"Nice try. It's one or the other," she tells him sternly, but with a hint of a smile in her voice. She briefly glances at you, before walking out. You know she doesn't want to leave you so abruptly, but this won't be the first time Paul interrupted a 'Hallmark moment' with someone you care about. You just wave her on. 

You watch Catherine lead Paul out, still amazed at how different he is around her. When Paul is around you, it's like he's always expecting disappointment. With Catherine, his face is full of hope and childlike joy. You lie down, thinking that it must be a 'mom thing'. 

You're the sister. Naturally, a brother will fight and stubbornly disagree with a sister, no matter what the circumstance. Catherine is the mom Paul never had. He really loves her, you think. 

Suddenly you begin to wonder if his fascination with Catherine will somehow prove to be more harmful than healing, in the end. You wonder if his immediate attachment to her was more than just happy circumstance. 

to be continued. . .


	11. Wake

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Notes: Firstly, I will refer all the way back to chapter one in this. Secondly, just FYI. I'm going on vacation this week. Expect a nice delay between this chapter and the next. Thank you, thank you, thank you for all the support and reviews! I love all that you have to say and appreciate you taking the time to read, let alone leave a review. I also felt unsure about the end, but I hope it's okay.

**Part Eleven**

**Wake**

"So, how is Ms. Willows?"

The question shocks your system a bit. Why would Nurse Garret care about how Catherine is doing? You don't answer. Your expression clearly befuddled because the nurse fumbles with a chart or something, scrolls the page with her index finger until she finds the information she's looking for.

"It says here your emergency contact is Catherine Willows?"

"Oh," you say. You forgot about that. You rub your wrist (now free of the cast) and smile, "Uh, Cath. . .Catherine is great. Really great."

"Good to hear," Nurse Garret smiles now. She gestures toward your arm. "So, full mobility?"

"Yep," you confirm. It feels good to finally be free of those bandages, those restraints. The freedom means you can go back to work soon. Tomorrow would be preferable, of course. Whether Grissom or Catherine will allow you back tomorrow is still uncertain.

You're instructed to open your mouth, which you do. A light is shined in and you hope that whatever she sees will give you the green light to go home. When she's done shining lights in every orifice on your face, you ask, "Well? Pneumonia gone?"

"It would seem like it," Garret says, nodding and checking off more things on the chart. "Just wait here a moment. The doctor will clear you and then you can go."

"Great," you say, watching Garret leave. You sigh inwardly, counting down the seconds till you can say goodbye to this place for good. You hate hospitals. Always have, always will.

There's a shrill sound, loud and garish. You nearly jump out of your skin.

What is _that? _

Ohhhh.

Damn it all to Hell. Paul changed the ringer on your phone again. That boy will be the death of you, you swear. You grab the phone out of your pocket and quickly answer it. You look around, hoping you didn't disturb too many people and say quietly, "Hello?"

"Hey! You all done?"

You smile. It's Catherine.

"Not yet," you say. "Why?"

"No reason, really," she says. Her voice is too sing-song, too mischievous for there to be no reason. She continues, "I wanted to catch you before you left."

The grin on your face widens. It's just the way her voice carries over the airwaves, the smile you can hear without seeing her face that causes those muscles in your face to twist in such a satisfying fashion. What the hell is she planning? You have to ask, "Okay, what's going on?"

You can hear the over exaggerated gasp. "Sara, nothing is going on. Honestly."

"Then why call?" you push.

"Just don't stop by my house on the way back. Meet me at the Treasure Island Hotel instead."

Treasure Island Hotel? The number of emotions coursing through you couldn't possibly be counted. You feel excited, fearful. Curious, unsure. This screams of some kind of set-up, some sort of surprise. Something.

"Sara, you hear me?"

"Yeah. Treasure Island. I'll be there soon."

She says goodbye and you end the call. You're smirking to yourself, you know this.

"Boyfriend?"

"Huh?" you snap your head up.

"Was that your boyfriend? Nick's his name, right?"

It's the doctor. Dr. Zimmerman. He's a nice fellow, very cordial. His memory is also scary good, considering he remembered your pseudo-boyfriend's name. When you don't answer right away, he shrugs, "Most times, a smile like that means a significant other just called. Got plans tonight?"

You chuckle. "Yeah, I guess I do."

"Well, I finished signing all the necessary forms which means you're free to go. Have fun tonight," Zimmerman tells you and rushes out.

Have fun tonight. You pull your coat on and smile.

Catherine Willows has something planned for you at the Treasure Island Hotel. You still don't know if that should excite you or scare the living crap out of you.

* * *

As soon as you enter the lobby at Treasure Island, Paul rushes you and literally tackles you. You manage to keep both your selves upright as he squeezes you tight. He's muttering about how he's happy you're all better and that Catherine wanted to treat you for being all better and yadda, yadda, ya.

You have barely any time to process what the hell is going on before you notice Nick, Greg, Warrick, and Grissom walking up to greet you. Catherine and Lindsey hang back, probably giving you time to recover from Paul's vicious embrace.

You spy Greg and look at him. "What is all this?"

"A party!" Greg exclaims. "Catherine got us in at Kahunaville. Big table. Lots of exotic drinks. Hot waitresses. Hunky bartenders."

"Hunky bartenders? And you said Hodges was gay," Nick remarks jokingly.

"For the girls," Greg explains to deaf ears. He stammers, "Hunky...the girls would appreciate that...forget it!"

You're all laughing too much for Greg to get a word in an d he gives up.

When Paul finally lets you go and bounds over to Nick, you receive hugs from everyone else. Warrick first, who whispers, "We tried to keep Paul calm. He was like a Mexican jumping bean the whole time we waited on you to get here."

You smile. Sounds like Paul.

Grissom hugs you next. "Can't wait for you to get back to work," he says.

"Really?" you say.

"Ecklie's been covering most of your cases while you've been out," Grissom explains. He doesn't say more than that and he doesn't need to. You'll be more than happy to return to work tomorrow.

Nick and Greg have a little trouble deciding who should hug you next, bumping shoulders on their way toward you. (Greg wins. Nick sulks.)

With the barrage of hugs over, the boys start to walk ahead of you. You approach Lindsey and Catherine now; Lindsey greets you with a huge smile and a hug. "Glad you're better, Sara."

"Thanks, kiddo," you smile down at her. You then look at Catherine as Lindsey rushes to catch up with Greg. "This wasn't necessary, Cath."

"I wanted to do this," she insists with a wide grin. She hooks an arm in yours and starts to lead you to the bars. "You overcame a great ordeal and let's face facts, you scared the hell out of us. We just wanted to show you how grateful we are that you're better. Is that okay?"

"Yeah," you nod. "That's okay."

It's more than okay, actually. You've got a beautiful woman on your arm.

This is all more than okay.

"Hey, Greg, slow down. We still gotta work tonight," Nick teases.

"I'm fine," Greg kinda slurs. "In fact, I'm great. Totally great."

Heh, yeah. He's great and you're name is Bob Texas. He's totally wasted. You see Grissom watching Greg with a wary eye.

You glance around the bar again, the colors in this place just grabbing your attention. Absolutely astounding.

Bright, yet lusciously deep hues of blues and reds and greens. Yellows and purples. Even the 'exotic drinks' seem brighter, livelier than most you've taken part in. You're typically a beer gal, but tonight is unlike your normal alcohol run. You're not draining a few to get over a tough case. You're with your friends and family. This is all purely to have fun.

Speaking of family. . .

Paul is getting along fine. You haven't mentioned doctors to him nor has he told you he doesn't need one. You're not sure when to bring that up again or even if you should. Talking about it will only anger him. If he gets angry, you're not only afraid he'll want to try and push you again, you're afraid that you'll push him back. You don't want to fight.

You blink your eyes, take another swig of your cocktail. For now, you'll forget about the doctor. For now, you'll just have a good time.

A hand waves at you. That hand belongs to Warrick and you wave back. He's charming some cute woman you all ran into at the bar earlier. He says he knows her, that her name is Tina. She seems nice enough. You have a feeling that Warrick will be spending most of his time with her tonight, which is fine with you. It's not that you don't love Warrick, but he has the tendency to hit on Catherine. A lot. Especially when drunk. You'd rather not 'accidently' kick him in the balls tonight.

"I want that one," Paul points at the menu, bringing your eyes back to the table. "No, wait. That one. It's pink."

"How about you get what Lindsey's getting?" you suggest. "Iced tea. It comes with an umbrella."

"A _pink_ umbrella," Nick is sure to add, a huge grin on his face.

"Ooo, okay," Paul agrees.

You glance at Nick, unsure if that was a teasing remark or not. Then again, you find it a bit strange that Paul would pick a drink based solely on the color pink.

Paul snags fries from a basket he and Lindsey are sharing. He jumps a little from the music, but then resumes eating. A lot of the deep bass sounds are felt in your chest, the DJ spinning some really funky tunes. You were worried the lights and sounds would freak him out a little, but he's clearly too enamored by the food to be completely worried with the fireworks display that is Kahunaville. Then something catches his eyes and he points. "Nick! What is he doing?"

Both you and Nick turn toward the bar. Ah, yes. Bartender theatrics. Tall blond, overly buff. Probably too pretty. He's flipping bottles, pouring drinks, winking at the ladies. He's a true alcohol artist.

"He's what we call a Flair Bartender," Nick explains. "You order a drink and he puts on a show for you."

"Will he do that for iced tea and an umbrella?" Paul inquires.

Nick laughs. "I guess he would. C'mon, let's ask him. You wanna watch too, Linds?"

"Sure," the young girl shrugs. She's really no stranger to the lights and sounds of Vegas, but you guess even she can admit it's all still fun to watch.

Nick, Lindsey and Paul rise from their seats to watch the bartender. You take another sip of your cocktail, never more happy to see Paul happy. You like Paul happy. A happy Paul is a good thing.

There are other things in Vegas you'd like to show him, you think. It's all new to him, his view so childlike. Everything that's boring to you is fascinating to him. You'd like to revisit Vegas and see the city through his eyes.

"I think we're running low," Catherine shouts to you over the music. "Wanna help me grab more drinks?"

"I'll help!" Greg shouts before you answer. He falls out of his chair trying to get up. "Okay, maybe I won't."

You laugh, helping him back to his feet. "Still a lightweight, I see."

"Just get me another, will ya, dollface?" he jokes, winking at you. "Grissom wants another too. Chop, chop."

You have to raise a warning eyebrow at him this time. "Excuse me? Chop, chop?"

"I'm fine," Grissom says, effectively adverting your rising irritation away from Greg. Lucky for Greg.

Catherine asks, "You sure, Gil?"

Grissom nods. He's still nursing his second drink. He's also been quiet. Not to say he's never quiet, but this quiet is strange, even for Grissom. He insists, "Go. I'll watch Greg. Make sure he doesn't put on a hula skirt and start dancing."

"Oh my God. Did you just make a joke, Gris?" Greg asks, to which both you and Catherine laugh.

At the bar, Catherine waves for an available bartender. He walks over, all smiles, then his gaze zeros in on Catherine and he exclaims, "Kitty?! Is that you?"

Kitty?

Catherine blushes a bit at the nickname. An old nickname, you assume. She's obviously thinking hard about who this guy is, though, because she doesn't say 'hello' back with quite as much enthusiasm.

"Oh, c'mon, Catherine! You gotta remember me!"

Seconds later, recognition burns bright in her eyes. "Barney? Barney Holt?"

"In the flesh, darling." Barney grins a greasy smile. He just screams 'sleazy, scumbag' to you. "I haven't seen you in years, baby! How's life treating you?"

"Not bad," Catherine smiles at him. Is it weird that you almost wanna puke? Could be the alcohol in your system, but yeah, you really almost want to puke.

"How's Eddie? Still shirking his support payments?" Barney asks. Hmm, he mentioned Eddie. Ouch. He doesn't know.

Catherine's face falls a bit, before she explains, "Eddie was murdered a couple of years ago, Barney."

You hurt along with Catherine, not just for her loss. No, you hurt because Catherine still shows signs of lingering love for Eddie Willows. You see it in her eyes whenever Eddie is brought up. You hurt because you could never nail his killer.

"Aww, baby, I'm sorry to hear that," Barney coos, putting on his best 'I'm so sad for you' face. "I had moved out to L.A. for a few years. Only been back in Vegas for two months."

"I tried calling everyone he knew," Catherine says, maybe trying to apologize for not letting Barney know about Eddie's death. Quite frankly, Barney's wolfish eyes make you wonder if he even cares that much about Eddie. He probably envied the man for what he had. Eddie had Catherine. It's pretty clear Barney wanted Catherine too. Maybe he still does.

"Don't worry about it, baby, don't worry about it," Barney shrugs. "Anyway, that's enough talk. What can I get you two ladies?"

Oh. So he did notice you were standing here. Impressive.

"Just a pitcher of whatever's on tap, Barney," Catherine requests. Barney scurries off to fill the order, but not before he winks at Catherine. You really could gag on your own vomit right now. Catherine looks at you and you look back, trying for indifference. It obviously doesn't work because she asks, "What Sara?"

"Nothing," you shake your head. "Nothing at all. Kitty."

You couldn't resist repeating the nickname.

Catherine rolls her eyes. "That stays between you and me."

"I wasn't going to say anything more on it," you swear, holding up a hand as if taking an oath. "I guess I am curious about something, though."

"What's that?" she asks, leaning on the bar so she can face you.

"Does this sorta thing happen every where you go?" you ask.

Catherine smirks. You hate that smirk. She leans in a little and asks, "What sorta thing?"

Her close proximity is making certain circuits in your brain go haywire. Would it be crazy to say that you think she knows this? Does she know your insides turn to mush just by being simply being in her presence?

A bad case of the flurries rumble about in your stomach, your mouth suddenly dry. You manage a nervous laugh or something. You look back at the bar, where Barney was standing, then say, "You know. That. People calling you Kitty. Does your past seem to follow you?"

Before Catherine can answer, Barney Holt returns with the beer and mugs. "Here ya go, baby. Enjoy."

"Thanks, Barney."

"Hey, don't be shy. Look me up," Barney proposes with another wink. "We got some catchin' up to do."

"Yeah, sure. I'll do that," Catherine says. That urge to vomit is back.

Your eyes dutifully watch Barney move down the bar to his next customer, another redhead. He's working the charm, just like he did with Catherine. You feel your lips quiver a bit in disgust. What a sleazy bast - - -.

"Down, Sara."

Your eyes snap to Catherine, a huge grin on her face. She motions for you follow her back to the table, thankfully choosing not to comment any further on your green-eyed behavior. Sheepishly, you grab the extra mugs and follow her.

That's probably another thing you should work on, you think. You shouldn't act like a jealous girlfriend whenever another guy hits on Catherine. That's a bit too obvious. Yeah, too obvious, idiot.

You sit back down in your chair, happy to have a beer in hand.

Greg is grinning elfishly at you for reasons you already know. You mouth the words 'shut-up' at him. He gives your leg a slight nudge under the table, letting you know he caught you. He caught you giving Barney Holt the glare of death.

You sigh. You've only given Greg more fuel in which to tease you.

* * *

There is a weight on your arm. Not the one that just healed. The other one. You open an eye only to shut it quickly again. Greg. Greg Sanders is on your arm. Or should you say, practically lying on top of you. You didn't think you drank that much at Treasure Island, but obviously it was enough to keep you from going to work "as soon as possible". It was enough to end up in a bed with Greg. Thankfully, you're both still clothed, so it's safe to assume all you two did was climb the stairs and pass out on the bed.

Wow, where did the night go? You somewhat remember Barney What's-His-Face seeking out your table. Well, let's face facts. He was seeking out Catherine and the more he talked to her, the more you drank. The more she smiled at him? The more you drank. You could see Nick trying to placate Paul and his suddenly insatiable hunger for french fries, but he kept a wary eye on you as well. You don't really blame him. It's safe to say you nearly drained that entire pitcher of beer all by yourself. All because Barney was hitting on Catherine.

You stir, trying to untangle yourself from Greg. That only wakes him up.

"Heeey, Sunshine. Looks like I got you in my bed after all. . ."

"Firstly, not your bed," you tell him. "Secondly, don't call me Sunshine."

"Oh, Sara, Sara, Sara. . ."

"Greg, get off me, please."

"God, if Catherine doesn't claim you soon, I'm just gonna . . .I'm gonna just take you all for myself, Sara-Bara!"

Sara-Bara? Okay, really time to get moving, but you really can't move. You don't have the strength to move Greg off your arm, nor do you have the strength to keep up this conversation with him. He doesn't either because you hear him snoring again. You'd rather he not wake up again because if Catherine walks in on some of rambling, your secret will surely be out.

You nearly groan aloud. Catherine _is_ the reason you drank too much, after all. Your 'secret crush' on her is why you're here, sharing this bed with an equally drunk Greg. Of course, you think Greg was drinking for entirely different reasons. Or you'd like to think he was. You never thought that maybe Greg pined over you so much that he drowned his unrequited love for you in alcohol.

"Greg," you whisper. He doesn't stir. You try again. "Greg."

"Sara?"

"Do you love me?"

"Of course I do," he smiles lopsidedly. He opens his eyes briefly. They look kinda sad and droopy, but they are open and there's a flicker of light in them. "You know I love you, Sara. You're the best."

"I mean love me, Greg," you try to emphasize. "Love."

His awry smile only fades slightly, but he doesn't answer you. He only shuts his eyes again and you don't feel you should ask him again. He loves you. He loves you and he knows that, but you also think he respects you enough not to pursue something that isn't there. You love Greg too, just not in the way he loves you. Then he whispers suddenly, "I don't have a chance against her. . ."

Her. Catherine. He knows you've got a thing for Catherine. That you get jealous when other men talk to her. That you look at her and sometimes can't stop looking at her. He knows that. You know that.

"Not happening," you mutter. It's laughable, the denial you keep trying to front. You keep saying it _can't_ happen. You _can't_ be attracted to Catherine, you _can't_ lust after Catherine, you _can't _be with Catherine, but you want all those things. You drank yourself silly because some idiot was hitting on Catherine last night. To make matters worse, that idiot was a former associate of Catherine's. She was smiling at him.

"What's not happening, sweetie?"

"Sweetie?"

You feel a hand on your shoulder. "It's me. Catherine. You awake?"

"I'm awake," murmurs Greg. He snuggles closer to you and mumbles again, "I'm 'wake."

You crank your head around and beg, "Get him off me."

"Okay," Catherine complies. She rounds the bed and gently pulls Greg off of you and onto his back. He complains, only a little, then is back to snoring. She's back to you quickly, putting a hand under your arm and helping you sit up. She jokes, "Has it been that long since you had a drink, Sara?"

_It's been that long since I was that jealous of anyone, yes. _

"I guess so," you admit, slowly getting out of bed and standing straight. Catherine is still holding you up, still offering to be your brace and you don't complain. You get to wrap an arm around her shoulders. You get to be close to her and in the midst of your hangover, you see nothing wrong with that. You tell her, "I don't remember drinking that much."

"Well, Paul found both you and Greg thoroughly entertaining last night," Catherine informs you, leading you to the door.

"Paul?" you repeat bleakly.

"Yeah," Catherine smiles at you. "If you're wondering, I just told him that both you and Greg were just. . .really happy."

You smile weakly. "Uh, thanks."

Down the steps you go, into the kitchen where coffee awaits you. You make a beeline for it (as if the mug is a homing beacon) and start taking generous sips. You say, without looking up, "You always make it just right."

"No cream, two packs of sugar," she says simply. When you look at her funnily, she says coyly, "Oh, c'mon Sara. Did you really think I wouldn't remember?"

You smile, "Honestly, I thought you had asked someone how I like my coffee."

"Sara, you know I don't ask questions I already know the answer to," she says, one eyebrow quirked some. You swear her words were mildly flirtatious just then. Of course, you are suffering from a hangover. You might be imagining that.

You set the mug down on the table, your head still swimming a bit. A thought occurs to you. Suddenly, you feel obligated to finally answer her question. You look at her, "You wanted to know something."

Catherine looks confused. "I did?"

"Yeah," you nod, sighing. "You wanted to know why I'm so angry."

There's a pregnant pause.

"I think I have a good idea now," Catherine replies, still confused.

"No, I mean, sure you know about my family. You know about Paul and my mother and my father, but that's not the only reason _why_ I'm angry," you tell her. You sip the coffee again, then continue, "I just feel I should tell you this. I trust you."

"You're not still drunk, right?" Catherine asks. She's half joking, you know, but she's also quite serious.

You say firmly, "I'm sober enough for this."

"I just don't want you saying something you'll regret, Sara," she warns you.

You lean forward, make solid eye contact with her and repeat, "I trust you."

"Okay," Catherine says quietly. Her eyes soften as well.

You lean back in your chair again. "I investigate crimes, Catherine. I investigate death. I don't know if it's out of some sick sense of justice or forgiveness or salvation, but I know my stake in this game is not pure. I'm here in Vegas because I was afraid of what was back there. I thought I was happy. I thought Grissom. . ."

You trail off there. It hurts to say his name, all of a sudden. Maybe because back then, his name represented a hope you long thought extinguished. Maybe it still represents that hope, you just were too exhausted to keep looking for it. You shake yourself out of your funk. "I thought Grissom could give me something. . .I don't know what. He offered me this job and I saw my chance for a new beginning. A new life."

Catherine tilts her head thoughtfully. "Sara, you're human. You can't be faulted for wanting change."

"No, I didn't want change. I wanted erasure, I wanted new," you correct her. "It wasn't just my past that angered me. It wasn't just the foster care system, or Paul's lack of understanding for my discomfort. It was all those things, plus my own stupidity. It was easy to be angry because I was mostly angry with myself and I will always be angry with myself. I can't forgive myself."

Catherine's eyes narrow, as if she's frustrated or furious. "So what? All your work here was no good? The relationships you've made were make under false pretenses? You believe all your time spent here was some selfish act?"

"No, I believe I came here out of selfishness and have been trying to make up for it ever since," you say sadly. "I guess I keep trying to prove that I'm a good person. That I'm useful to somebody."

"Sara, you have never been useless," Catherine states unwaveringly. "I know we had our ups and downs over the years, but don't ever think I saw you as useless. I didn't want to admit it then, but you were a _great_ addition to our team and you always will be. Maybe you don't think your time and energy was well spent, but it was you who was instrumental in closing a lot of our cases. You brought closure to those who needed it."

"But what about me? Where's my closure?" you ask. There it is. The 'me'. It's all about you, isn't it? It was all about 'you' when you left Paul back home. You shake your head, a sardonic smile on your lips. "See? See what I mean? I can't stop thinking about me. . ."

"Maybe because you've never had time to think about you," Catherine says simply.

You look at her, curious. "What?"

Catherine shrugs. "I don't know, Sara. You keep telling me your selfish and all I've ever seen is _selflessness_. The way I see it, you've never had time for you. You always had Paul to think about, your past, your family and what they did. You say you came here for erasure? Then what did you have? All you had were the cases because what was left of you remained back home. Sara, you're not angry because you're selfish. Maybe you're angry because you weren't selfish enough."

"But I left him. . .," you argue. "I was afraid. . ."

"But fate brought him back," Catherine cuts you off. "The guilt you feel is natural. You just have to let go of what you did and start thinking about what you can do to make it right."

You look away.

"Sara, hey. Look at me."

You do.

"You say you trust me. Do you really trust me?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Then _trust_ me when I say, I've been there," Catherine says. "I was a reckless teenager. I did everything to anger my mother and more. Then I ran away from it all. I ran away from a relatively stable home, a town with more than suitable jobs, education, connections and I came here to nothing. I've been here ever since. I don't regret my decisions, Sara, but I've recognized that I could've made better ones. The work I do now will probably never make up for it, but I'm trying. Trying to make a better example for Lindsey and trying to be a better daughter to my mother. Just try. It's all you can do."

You can't help but grin now, rubbing your eyes. In a somewhat airy tone, you say, "I used to think we had nothing in common, Cath."

"I used to think the same thing."

to be continued. . .


	12. Proud

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Notes: I know ya'll kept asking about Cath and Sara and when will they just say 'I love you' already. Blame the muse. I've had the outline for that particular development written for weeks, but kept holding it off due to other developments in the story that simply took longer to write. I apologize. I'll make up for, I promise. Enjoy the next bit and as always, thank you for the reviews.

**Part Twelve**

**Proud**

"We'll see you everyday, Paul," Catherine says.

You watch your brother as his face lights up again. He really loves her, you think. He grabs a bag from the car and says, "Still wish I was living with you, Catherine. I like your house. Cops live in houses."

You frown. You forgot about that. You forgot to tell Paul that one, you're not cops. Two, not all cops live in houses. You toss Lindsey your apartment key and watch the two of them head inside.

It's going to be really different living back in your apartment. With Paul.

He's already expressed his discontent that Catherine will no longer be around 24/7. To say that doesn't worry you would be a lie. His deep connection to her worries you a lot.

When he first met Cath, you were ecstatic he could form human connections so quickly. Maybe he didn't take to Nick and Greg quite as quickly as he took to Catherine, but they could just as easily be Paul's brothers now. He's still a bit iffy around Warrick, but again, he gets along with him. Paul has friends.

He has Catherine and you just can't shake the feeling that he's attached to her for all the wrong reasons.

You can't take Catherine out of his life, however. That would surely end disastrously. What you can do is change how they interact with one another. It may not quell all your fears, but it will lessen them.

"Cath, can you do me a favor?"

"Sure. Anything."

You stop, just outside your door. You say as discreetly as possible, "Could you maybe stop babying Paul?"

"Sara, I don't baby him. . ." Catherine begins to protest.

"Look, I know you think you have to and I really love that you do," you say. "It's just, I'm worried that he's getting used to the special treatment. He never had someone like you as a child and essentially, he still is a child. Just, cut back on the waffle breakfasts and cookies. One, he'll expect that every time he sees you and two, he'll expect _me_ to do that every morning you're not around."

It's cute, but you swear Catherine is pouting a little. "Okay, I understand. I really do. I'll cut back. He is a grown man."

"Yes, he is. A fact that you remind me of everyday," you tell her, just to drive the point home.

"Touché," she nods. "Fine. No more special treatment. I'll treat him like an adult."

"Thank you," you say, pushing your way through the entryway. "And thanks for helping us move back in."

"No problem," Catherine replies as she follows.

Lindsey is on the couch with Paul, keeping him occupied while you and Catherine drop the duffle bags on the floor.

You look around your apartment. You're a bit shocked, noticing for the first time how small the space really is. You're gonna miss Catherine's house, with the open foyer and the kitchen with real tile. You'll miss it a lot. You glance at her, give a quick smile. She smiles back.

No. You won't miss her house, really. You'll just really miss having her around all the time. In that sense, you are no different than Paul. Maybe you should be more worried about how attached you've become to Catherine. Maybe.

"Do guys need anything before we go?" Catherine asks.

"We'll be fine," you tell Catherine, pulling her into a brief hug. "We'll get settled in and I'll see you tonight, when I drop off Paul at your place."

"Yeah, I should get back. Greg has to be awake now," Catherine says, laughter in her tone.

"He probably is," you say, hoping Greg took the initiative to just go home. The last thing you need is for him to be hanging around Catherine, hungover and still pining after you. He'll probably tell her something like, 'oh Cath! Ask Sara out already so I know if I have chance!'.

You frown to yourself. Your mental impression of Greg Sanders is almost too good.

"Alright, Linds. Say goodbye to Paul. We're heading home," Catherine calls over to her daughter. You watch Paul hug Lindsey goodbye, then he bounds over to Catherine and hugs her tightly. She laughs at him. "I will see you tonight, you know. This isn't forever goodbye."

"I know," Paul says. "See you tonight."

He immediately retreats to your bedroom and you frown again, remembering how much _fun_ you had fighting over your space with him before. Ah, yes, welcome home, Sara. Welcome home.

"Oh, Sara?" Catherine calls you.

You turn to her. "Forget something?"

"Actually, I wanted to ask if you thought about the compromise I mentioned before?" she inquires.

Oh no, not the compromise about seeing the psychiatrist. To you, that's not a compromise at all! That's a death sentence! Before you can protest that idea again, she holds up a hand to silence you.

"Look, as much as it pains you to think about it, _please_ think about it. I was being quite serious when I told you that maybe Paul doesn't want to go it alone. I talked to Grissom and he thinks he can set you up with a friend. Just think about it."

She pins you down with her eyes. You squirm and groan aloud, then finally say, "Fine, I'll think about it."

"Good. See ya tonight," she says, walking down the hall. You shut the door after her and lean against it.

Hmph. Think about it. You know damn well you're not going to think about it and Catherine knows that too. She knows you have no other choice if you want Paul to get evaluated by a shrink. He'll need convincing and this compromise is about a good idea as any.

You look up when Paul returns to the family room and he waves at you. You wave back, the awkwardness between you two never more evident. It's going to be really different, living here with Paul.

You smile at him and say, "Hey, buddy. I got this idea. I won't force you into anything you don't want, but maybe we can try a different approach to our problem."

"Is this about the doctor?" Paul nearly whines, rolling his eyes. Hmm, there's no pulling a veil over his eyes. You'll need to ease into this compromise.

"Hey, you want to be treated like an adult, right?" you ask him.

He nods.

"Adults listen to one another. They try to see the other person's side and guess what? I put myself in your shoes," you tell him. "If I were you, I wouldn't want to see a doctor either."

"So you understand," he says, sighing in relief.

"Yeah, I do, but this isn't about _wanting_ to go," you tell him. "This is aboutunderstanding that people do things, not out of want, but out of _need_. That being said, I think. . ..since we both don't _want_ to see a doctor, but probably should...I think we can both go. Together. What do you think?"

Saying the words aloud make you visibly wince, but Paul isn't paying much attention to your obvious discomfort.

His eyes squint and you know he's confused by your suggestion. He steps forward, cautiously. Good. His movements aren't aggressive and this relaxes you. He doesn't want to fight you. He's actually considering your words.

He scratches at his beard and says, "You don't like doctors either, but you want to see one anyway?"

_I don't want to see one. . ._

"Okay, let's clear one thing up. It's a psychiatrist, not a doctor. There's a difference. Psychiatrists ask questions and sometimes recommend medicines. They don't poke or prod at you or anything like that. They just want to get to know you," you explain. "They help you understand yourself. Once you understand yourself, it's easier to interact with those around you. Make sense?"

"Sure, yeah," he nods. "Some of the doctors were like that at the home."

The home. Again, you're happy that place did some good, even if Paul will be mad at you for all eternity for leaving him there.

"Like I said, I don't _want_ to go to this psychiatrist either, but I think if we both go together, we can learn to understand each other better," you finish.

Hmm, not bad. You just pulled that whole 'understand one another' speech out of your ass, and while it sounded good on the surface, you don't know if Paul will bite. He's smarter than he lets on.

He rocks on his feet, his eyes flitting about with concern. "What if this psych'trist tells me I can't go back to school? What if they tell me I have to go back home?"

There it is. That's what you were searching for. You weren't quite sure what it was Paul feared most. Sure, Catherine's reasoning wasn't too farfetched. He didn't want to go it alone, but ultimately, that wasn't his greatest fear. He was afraid a doctor would send him back to Tamales Bay, back to 'the home'.

"Hey," you say, stepping toward him. You're careful not to touch him, because you're still wary of his potential strength. "I won't let them take you away from me, okay? You're not going anywhere you don't want to go, alright?"

"You promise?" he says.

"I promise," you tell him. He surprises you when he hugs you tight to him. You hug him back.

You like hugging Paul. You especially like when he initiates the contact. It means that the little brother you remember still resides in him somewhere. It means he is capable of loving another person, he's capable of considering someone other than himself. Hopefully, when you find a suitable psychiatrist, they will give you some insight on Paul's somewhat violent tendencies. Honestly, you're still afraid that someday, you'll say something that'll set him off.

You're afraid that nothing you could say or do would stop him from hurting you or anyone else.

You continue to embrace him and promise, "We'll get through this. It doesn't have to be forever. Just a few appointments, see what they have to say. Can you do that?"

He doesn't let you go as he says, "I'll go, but I won't like it."

--

Well, you're back. Finally.

You make it to work without crashing your car. Kudos to you. You've made it through the evening without tripping over your own feet. Again, more kudos. What you're not ready for _is_ work.

The one place you were itching to get back to and you'd rather be anywhere but here. You find yourself imagining dinner at Catherine's. Lindsey and Paul; talking about school. Lily; chastising Catherine about one thing or another. You; finding any chance you can to watch Catherine incognito. That sorta thing.

You'd rather be there than be at work.

A shadow passes by the locker room threshold and you know it's her. You smell her perfume.

You can identify her scent with no problems now. You don't know if that has to do with familiarity or the increasingly giddy sensation bubbling in your stomach.

Damn, it's the unutterable thing again. That something you've refused to name until now. It's been getting stronger, your attraction to Catherine. Yes, you're calling it 'attraction' now. (Baby steps, right?)

Attraction. An invisible force that tends to push you in Catherine's direction more often than you care to admit out loud.

You think Paul has noticed. You don't know why. He hasn't changed the way he is around you or Catherine, but you think he's noticed. What you don't know is if he'll approve. Not that you need his approval, but you have unpleasant memories concerning previous suitors. Paul swinging a bat at one of them being the most haunting. You furrow your brow in thought. He wouldn't swing a bat at Catherine, would he?

You shake your head. No sense in getting ahead of yourself. Catherine isn't even your girlfriend.

Okay. You've stalled long enough. Time to work.

You look up and see Grissom. You would be startled by his sudden appearance, but he's always done that. Shown up in doorways like some nerdy version of the Batman, his movements quiet and methodical.

You stand, wait on him to approach you. His expression would seem unreadable to others, but you know something is up with him. He's been a little off ever since your 'glad Sara is all better' party at Treasure Island. Maybe he's finally ready to talk to you.

He offers up a little smile. The intensity in his eyes spells out a sense of loss. He feels lost.

Paul isn't the only one who's noticed the way you and Catherine have changed around each other. You think Grissom knows too. You also think Grissom still feels for you. He feels for you what you can't return to him now.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey," you say back. "What's up?"

"Just checking in. You've been out a while," he shrugs. He's trying for indifference. It's not working.

You sigh, "Grissom. . ."

"Sara," he cuts you off. That's different. Usually, you're the one cutting him off and ending conversations before they even begin. He steps closer to you and says, "Sara, I just wanted to say welcome back. See how you were doing."

"I'm great," you tell him. You see his expression deflate ever so slightly. He's always been so guarded with his feelings, but sometimes he forgets that you can read him.

"That's good," he manages to reply. He quickly hands you a business card. "Catherine tells me you're looking for a psychiatrist, for Paul. I thought it would be easier for you to go through the department, rather than search for an outside source. She agreed to see both of you. Paul's sessions will be free of charge."

Wow. Free? You take the card, warily. You've never known Grissom to be conniving, but this act of generosity seems too charitable. Why would he pull strings for you, for Paul?

You laugh nervously. "Grissom, I. . . don't know what to say."

"I know," he says. You feel the pad of his thumb on your cheek. He repeats softly, "I know."

Suddenly, Grissom is talking about a completely different thing or maybe he isn't at all. This whole encounter was never about the psychiatrist or even your well being. It's about him knowing you are lost to him. It's his goodbye.

You lean into the touch with a forlorn smile. Gil Grissom. Mentor, friend. You pined over him for so long, you can't blame him for hoping. Maybe somewhere down the road, you'll regret not trying. Maybe.

His touch, his palm against your cheek is transferring everything he never said to you and it sucks that you're learning all this now, in this moment. When you look at him, all you can express is your sympathy. You say softly, "I'm sorry. I warned you. I told you it would be too late."

He nods again, words failing him once more. His hand lingers, his thumb continues its soft, circular motion.

Your eyes happen to glance up, look over his shoulder. Catherine is in the doorway, paused in what seems like a bit of shock. She's holding a report, something she was probably reading while walking by. You back away from Grissom quickly, your jaw dropping slightly. Grissom recoils quickly too, turning around to see what has turned you as white as a bed sheet. Before either one of you can say anything, she's gone.

That. . .that wasn't good, was it? The way she stormed off like that wasn't good.

"I'll go," you both say at the same time. You both pause, blushing smiles on both your faces.

Grissom moves aside, "You go."

"Thanks," you smile softly.

You leave him in the locker room, you're next mission to find Catherine. That look she gave you, it's a burned image in your mind. You have to talk to her, not only to find out what that look means but to explain what she saw. The rumors of you and Grissom are still alive and well around this lab. You want to set the record straight.

So, what are you going to say?

You round the corner and bump right into Catherine. Damn it. You're not ready.

You quickly mumble, "Sorry. . .I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"Look, Cath. About what happened in there. . ."

"None of my business, Sara," Catherine says curtly.

"But. . ."

"The Wright case is back open. We found her son," Catherine says quickly. Her tone is a bit flustered.

Okay, work mode. Not in personal life mode. Work mode. You can do that. Switch gears. Get it together.

God, you have no idea what she's talking about.

"Um, the Wright case?"

"Termite House. You know, the house that collapsed under you. We found the owner's son, finally," Catherine reiterates, now her tone one of annoyance. Her flippant attitude about your accident also has you a tad worried.

"Oh," is about all you can get out.

"Let's go. He's over at PD with Brass," she orders abruptly, pushing past you. She sounds pissed. Wait? Why is _she_ pissed?

"Catherine, wait," you say, grabbing her arm and keeping her near. You soon realize that's a mistake.

She yanks her arm back, her voice is low and angry. "I get it, Sara. Run back to him because it's easy. No need to explain. I get it."

"Wait? _What?_" you say, stepping back in a daze. "I don't think you understand."

Okay, no longer in work mode. Back to personal life mode. This switching back and forth is giving you a damn headache, that's all it's doing. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. . .

"I'm not blind, Sara," Catherine hisses, trying desperately to keep her voice modest. "I just saw the two of you, okay? I get it."

"No, honestly, I don't think you get anything," you hiss back. Before she can get out another word, you insist, "I think we should take this in your office, _please_."

"Fine," she literally spits at you, then storms off.

Geez! Where the hell does she get off acting like that? Now you're mad. No, you're royally ticked off.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, open your eyes and see Hodges in his lab just staring at you. Hodges, you know, will believe whatever is the most juiciest and/or naughtiest. You know he still believes you're screwing Grissom and/or still want to. Maybe now he suspects something of you and Catherine as well. Great.

You ignore him, because you really don't have time to dwell on Hodges or his perverted mind. You only have to time to sort things out with Catherine. Hell, you just need to sort things out in general!

You walk into her office, shutting the door behind you. She's leaning on her desk, arms folded, lips pressed together tightly. You swallow hard, not sure how to proceed.

So what now? Um, okay. Yeah. Time for a little honesty.

"I don't even know _why _you're mad at me!" you declare.

"Oh, c'mon, Sara," Catherine gripes.

Your eyes narrow of their own accord. "Look. What happened in the locker room, it was just. . ., I don't even know what it was, okay? Grissom has this uncanny ability to confuse the hell out of me."

She lowers her head. You've noticed she's not good at keeping eye contact with you, especially during an argument. She finally huffs out, "I'm not mad at just _you_. I'm mad at _both_ of you."

"Both of us?" you repeat. "Why?"

She doesn't seem to know what to do with her hands. One second, her arms are crossed. The next, they are at her side, fists balled up. Finally, she says, "I don't know!"

You shake your head in disbelief. "You don't know?"

"I mean, I do know, I just don't know how to say it. Look Sara, we don't have time for this," Catherine says, trying to focus on work, but you don't want to focus on work. You want to finish this.

You look around, just to make sure you still have some semblance of privacy. The glass walls of the lab are irritatingly see-through, but fortunately, Catherine's office has some blinds.

As Catherine goes to walk by you and leave, you grab her arm and keep her there. You say firmly, "We're not done."

"Sara, let me go," she orders you. When her fiery eyes meet yours, you have a sudden sense of deja vu. You think back on your relationship with Catherine, before Paul showed up.

You recall how often those tempestuous eyes were directed at you. You remember what things were like before and you remember how gratifying those moments were. There was always something enjoyable about quarreling with Catherine. In some ways, fighting with her is still satisfying, but this time is different. This isn't about a difference of opinion on the job. This is more personal. This will hurt. If things don't end well, this will hurt more than any other argument you've ever had.

"No," you tell her. "You're obviously upset and I want to fix it now."

Catherine escapes from your hold, but she doesn't make a run for the door. She huffs, "I shouldn't have to explain this to you."

"Humor me," you beg.

Your begging releases the floodgates. Her words are fast and almost incomprehensible.

"Okay, I'm mad at _him_ because he took me to a bar the other night to wine and dine me, his good ol' friend, in hopes I would help him repair the damage between him and his subordinate. Let's keep in mind that this subordinate was in a bed at _my_ house trying to recover from a broken wrist and pneumonia.

"Did he care? Of course not! He's Grissom and he has a one track mind about _everything_. He never considers the implications of his words or actions and on top of that, I have very good reason to suspect this subordinate (that he so desperately seeks reconciliation with) has fallen for me and is no longer interested in him! Need I go on?"

Need she go on? Uh, no. That about sums it up.

You watch her chest rise and fall, obviously out of breath. You don't think she paused for a nanosecond during her little rant. As for you? You're not so sure you can breathe either. You remember what Greg told you. He told you that Grissom and Cath had drinks together, but he assumed it meant nothing. Now you know it most definitely meant something.

"Sara, for God's sake, don't pull that stupid, numb silence thing that you do!" Catherine almost shouts.

"I'm s-sorry," you stammer, stepping back a little. "That's a lot to process."

Catherine laughs, at you or at something you said. You don't know which, but the laugh is borderline evil. She looks at you and says pointedly, "Sara, there is nothing to process. Grissom loves you, probably always has. He confessed all this to me over a glass of wine I guess in some last ditch attempt to make things right between you two. Quite frankly, I don't care what you two do just as long as you leave me out of it."

Leave her out of it? What is she saying? That this bond you two have formed is now defunct?

You feel your legs wobble in frustration.

"Catherine, for the last time, there is nothing going on with Grissom and I. Okay? Nothing. I don't know what I have to do to convince you of that and I'm sorry he can't seem to get his own affairs in order and that he turns to you for everything, but you are his friend and I guess he felt you were the only one he could turn to.

"I'm sorry he still has feelings for me and I'm sorry that his influence on my life is just as strong as it was when we first met. I'm sorry that I even decided a friendship with you was even doable, because obviously it isn't. I . . .I don't know what else to say."

This time, you go to make your exit, but Catherine grabs your arm to hold you back. You look at her and this time see remorse in her features.

"Sara, I don't regret our friendship," she says quietly. "But I do agree with you that a friendship is no longer doable."

You feel your heart crush into tiny pieces. She doesn't want to be your friend. She doesn't want that anymore. You keep it together because you always knew in your soul that a friendship with Catherine would be hard to keep. You can't cry now and you won't. You just nod again.

"Sara," she calls out to you. "Please, don't think I hate you."

"I don't think you hate me," you tell her, but the words sound flat.

"I don't hate you," she repeats. "And I'm not really mad at Grissom. He thought he was pouring out his soul to an objective friend."

"Objective?" you repeat.

She half smiles. "Yeah. I don't think he realized that, while confessing to me his feelings for you, that maybe I, too, had developed some. . ."

Her phone rings, startling you both. Damn it, she's distracted and she didn't finish her thought.

Oh what does it matter? This interruption is really a good thing. You're ready to bolt. You need a moment to yourself, to think. She looks at you and requests firmly, "Don't run, Sara."

You hate how well she knows you.

You nod, agreeing to stay put until she's done on the phone.

"Hey, Jim.. .I know. We're on our way. Hodges was talking our ears off, you know how it goes. See you soon." She hangs up, looking at you. "Sara, I think I should say something."

"Later," you say, desperately needing to escape now. "Jim's waiting on us. We still have a case to work on."

"I know, I just feel like such an asshole," she laughs uneasily, playing with the phone in her hands. "I mean, between my bewilderment and Grissom's unmindful-ness, I will surely go crazy." As an afterthought, she adds, "I have gone crazy."

"I think we're all a little crazy," you reply, half-joking.

"No, I mean, _you_ drive me crazy," she says simply. You can't help but give her a very befuddled stare. She half smiles at you. "Has it occurred to you yet that I just reacted like a raging, jealous bitch when I saw you and Grissom in the locker room just now?"

Your mouth drops open slightly before you admit sheepishly, "Uh, no. Not until you pointed it out."

"God, you and Grissom _were_ separated at birth," she remarks.

You shake your head, "I wish you would stop comparing me to him."

"And I wish you would figure out what you really want," Catherine says pointedly. "Because once you figure that out, then maybe Grissom will move on with his life and then maybe I'll figure out what to do with mine because something happened. Something _has_ happened in the last month between us and hell if I know what it all means, but Sara, when I said a friendship was no longer doable, I meant that I don't think being your friend is enough."

_Maybe being her friend is no longer enough. _

The tiny pieces of your heart rise from the floor and slowly put themselves back together. A bubbling chuckle comes up your throat and escapes as a strangled, "What?"

She steps a little closer and you're suddenly very aware of the blood pulsing through your veins. Aware of how close you two are standing. Catherine's fingers intertwine with yours and you feel the blush on your cheeks. She says quietly, her tone colored with a hint of amusement, "I'll admit, I didn't think I would be having this conversation with you right now, at work. I just figured you would be too proud to point out the obvious first and I was tired of waiting."

"That obvious, hmm?" you manage to say.

Catherine grins. "Yeah, that obvious."

"What gave me away?" you ask, not even sure you want to know.

Catherine tilts her head to the side, thinking. She whispers, "Your eyes."

You have to chuckle. "My eyes, you say?"

"Yeah, they sorta do this cute flutter thing whenever I hold your hand," she tells you, her voice almost whimsical. She fleetingly brushes hair from your face, then adds, "Or if I do something like that."

You are turning absolutely tomato red right now (this you know for sure) and you can remember just about every time your eyes did that 'cute flutter thing' in Catherine's presence. Including just a few seconds ago, when she lightly brushed hair off your forehead. Doesn't mean you have to admit to it, though.

"My eyes don't do that," you say stubbornly.

"Oh, yeah, they do," Catherine insists teasingly. "It's cute."

"I'm not cute," you say weakly. Her close proximity is overwhelming. Overwhelming because there's nothing to hide behind. There's no thin veil of denial to shield your heart. She knows. Hell, she knew all along that you had fallen for her and now her earlier comment makes sense.

Girssom didn't know that Catherine had fallen for you too. He thought he was confessing his feelings to an objective friend. He thought Catherine could give him advice, but in reality, she couldn't help him. She couldn't, not even if she wanted to. She had fallen for you too.

You think Catherine is going to kiss you now or something, but she doesn't do that at all. Instead, she reaches past you to grab the handle of her office door to open it. She asks tentatively, "Can we talk about this after shift? Please?"

You can only nod because you've lapsed back into that 'stupid, numb silence thing' that you do. You step out, mumble something about finding your coat and you practically sprint to the locker room. Thankfully it's empty and you plop down on the hard metal bench to collect yourself.

Did Catherine just admit that she has feelings for you too?

Uh yeah, stupid. She just did that. She clearly just did that.

Question is, what the hell are _you_ going to do about it?

Well, one, you shouldn't panic.

You're panicking.

Calm down, idiot. Calm down. This is what you wanted, right? You may have denied what was going on in your heart, but knowing how she feels too lifts a huge burden off your shoulders.

Catherine wants to be more than your friend. She wants you.

You grin stupidly, then sense a presence behind you. It's Grissom, in the doorway. You might've expected traces of sadness on his features, but all he does is smile softly at you. The way he used to smile at you years ago, when you first met him. Before you two started dancing around whatever thing was there between you. That soft, encouraging smile. Gil Grissom. Mentor, friend, supporter.

He quietly walks away, graciously accepting defeat. He lost you. You gained her.

Finally, your thumping heart stills.

Catherine appears in the doorway next. "Hey, you ready?"

Are you ready? You think so.

You stand, hoping Catherine doesn't notice you never grabbed a coat, then walk up to her. After a long moment of contemplation, you say confidently, "Yeah, I'm ready."

to be continued. . .


	13. Impatient

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Notes: I went over this chapter a hundred times and I still don't know if I like it. Anyway, it's here. Thank you for the reviews, comments and for some, the personal emails! I love all the feedback and the encouragement. I feel all warm and fuzzy inside, thanks to your kinds words.

**Chapter Thirteen**

**Impatient**

Once outside, Catherine realizes she left her keys to the Tahoe inside. At this rate, you'll never question Mrs. Wright's son _and_ Jim will probably maim you both for being so late.

You wait by the driver side door, patiently. Your mind, however, won't stop racing.

Catherine called you out. You're somewhat thankful, to be honest. She was right about one thing. You were too proud to say anything about your feelings aloud. You were too afraid to admit what you felt. Afraid of what it might do to your working relationship, to your friendship. You're afraid of how this will affect Paul.

Looks likes you're going to take the leap now. You'll have to worry about these new developments, these fears (and their effect on work) later. You'll have time to talk later.

Later, however, just seems like it's too far away.

"Sara?"

Catherine is back and you didn't notice. In fact, she's jingling the keys. Probably an attempt to grab your attention. You mumble, "Sorry. Ready to go?"

She nods as you both climb into the vehicle. You leave the lab behind you. You leave Catherine's misunderstanding (then subsequent confession of love) in the lab. You've only been in the car for about two minutes and that's about all that you can stand. You _can't wait_ for later.

"Pull the car over," you instruct, your voice kinda loud. Maybe too loud. Why is your voice loud?

Catherine jumps a little, jerking the wheel, but manages control of the vehicle. She chances a quick glance at you before her eyes are on the road again. She says, "Pull over? Why?"

"Just do it," you say.

"Sara, we're already late," Catherine protests. "I already lied to Jim once."

You rub your brow and promise, "It'll take all of three seconds, maybe four, tops. Pull over."

"Fine, fine," Catherine finally relents, safely pulling into a gas station. You briefly consider how close you are to PD and how many detectives might use this gas station on a regular basis. You don't see anyone you know. . .

Once she puts the vehicle in park and sets the brake in place, she turns to ask you what the hell is wrong with you. You don't give her a chance to utter a word. You've already unbuckled your seat belt, giving you more mobility. You grab the back of her neck, yank her toward you and kiss her. You kiss her hard and start counting off the seconds when she doesn't pull away.

One Mississippi. She hasn't pushed you away yet. That's a good sign.

Two Mississippi. She is eagerly returning the kiss. Another good sign.

Three Mississippi. Okay. . ., _that_ was a very good sign. Whatever she just did with her . . .

Four Mississippi. Four seconds. You said it would be over now.

Oh, one more second wouldn't hurt.

Okay. Enough already. You got what you wanted.

You relinquish your hold on her, gulping in a large amount of air.

Spontaneity. That's a new one. Sudden, impromptu urges to yank a car over to the side of a road to senselessly kiss someone you're crazy about is not something you do. Well, it's not something you've done ever. There are a lot of things you wouldn't have done before meeting Catherine. Have you mentioned that you've lost your mind yet? If you haven't, now would be a good time to remind yourself.

You have _lost_ your mind.

You have good reason to be a bit crazy, you suppose. The last several weeks have been highly eventful. A looney brother, a freak accident and a fortuitous love. It was bound to drive you a little crazy, right?

You watch Catherine licking her lips, her eyes still closed. Your hand drops from the back of her neck, but you don't sit back in your seat just yet. You want to know what she does next. Will she slap you? Yell at you? Kiss you again? Please let it be 'kiss you again'. . .

Catherine's eyes open slowly as she says, "That was five seconds, not four."

You manage a brief smile before she captures your lips again with her own.

Never in your life have you hated seat belts more than you do now.

It's an unrelenting barrier between you and Catherine at the moment, the confounding thing keeping her rooted in the driver's seat. The thought of you actually climbing into her lap did occur to you, though. You're beginning to think you won't mind having the steering wheel jammed into your back, just as long as you're still able to kiss Catherine.

"Sara, hold on," she gets out. "Hold on a sec. . ."

You lick your lips now, every fiber in your body screaming for her. It still hasn't ceased to amaze how feral humans can be. Lust reduces every civilized thought to a mere shell of its former self.

You just want. You want and if permission is given, you take. You want Catherine now, but she's halted all processes. She's got some manner of control over her impulses. You, on the other hand, are finding it hard to hold back, as you steal another kiss from her. It's quick (and she doesn't complain), but she does repeat, "Hold on."

"I'm sorry," you tell her. That's a lie. You're not sorry at all.

She sits back in her seat now. You follow suit. She runs a hand through her hair, taking a long minute to gather herself. Finally, she says softly, "Sara, it's been. . .a long time since I've wanted anyone in my life. Look, I'm not ashamed to admit I'm afraid, but I've been burned one too many times. It. . ."

"Scares you," you finish, your voice soft. She nods. There is a brief silence and in that time, you know what it is you have to say and what it is you have to do. You say confidently, "Let's go out. Dinner or something."

Catherine chuckles, a light blush on her cheeks and shyness in her eyes. "A date? You think that's a good idea?"

"Heck if I know," you tell her. You're serious. You haven't a clue if this is a good idea. What you do find amusing is that Catherine will blush at the mention of a date and not because she just literally shoved her tongue down your throat.

Catherine sighs, turning her head from you. "And I want the impossible from you. I want assurance."

She wants assurance you'll stay. She knows you. She knows that when the going gets tough, you have the tendency to run. You ran from Paul. She knows you ran from him and she wants a promise you won't do that to her.

Suddenly lust gives way to reason. You remember why you were so afraid to pursue this in the first place. You've always known you had the potential to hurt others. You don't want to hurt Catherine.

You slip your hand into hers. When she looks at you, you say, "I can give you now, Cat."

There is a pause. Then Catherine breathes something you don't understand. It's just a whisper, a ghost of a sound. You feel her fingers lightly brush your cheek. They run down your jaw line and tilt your chin upward. Now you are staring directly into her eyes and you can't pull away from them. You tentatively lean in this time and gently kiss her.

She sighs into your mouth. You take that as a 'yes, I'll go out with you, Sara'. She'll take a chance on you.

Your entire body tingles, knowing you have her. She's right here, with you. She's yours.

Before the kiss can really go anywhere, however, both your cell phones ring. Bliss is shattered. Reality sets back in.

You're still on the clock. You're still at work.

"Damn his timing," Catherine says, pulling back. Her husky tone leaves you wanting. She answers, "Willows."

You finally answer your phone as well, "Sidle."

It's Greg. "Sara? You sound breathy? Were you running?"

"No, I wasn't running - "

You try to listen to what Catherine is saying too. "We hit some really dense traffic, Jim, but it's clearing up - - -Yeah, I know PD is only a few blocks away."

You almost laugh out loud at what Catherine just said, but Greg is still talking. He surmises, "Then you're at PD then? Jim's been paging everyone at the lab looking for you."

"No, Greg. Not at PD yet. I'm with her," you say, grinning to yourself. You can't stop grinning. You glance at Catherine, who is also smiling. You sort of feel like you got caught by your parents making out in the backseat of their car. Well, if you had normal, caring parents, that might be a better analogy.

Greg gasps. "_. . ._with Catherine? Oh my God, I knew it! I knew it, knew it, knew it!"

"Greg, whatever you're thinking, stop thinking it."

". . .oh Sara. The thoughts I'm thinking can't be stopped."

"We are working the same case, nimrod. Not a surprise I'm with her."

"But it's taken you more than twenty minutes to get to PD? I doubt it, Sara! Oh man, this is awesome. I'm telling Nick."

"Greg!" He hangs up on you. You shut your eyes tightly, cursing to yourself. Greg will tell Nick, who will tell Warrick, who might tell Grissom, but Grissom practically knows anyway.

Catherine finishes up her call. "He lawyer'd up? Well, maybe we'll beat the public defender there. See you soon."

Now that the phone calls are done, the inevitable awkwardness follows. You inhale deeply and exhale slowly. You mention casually, "We should talk. Later."

"Later," she agrees. "Later is good."

"Okay, later," you confirm.

"Actually, much later," she confesses. "Lindsey has this thing at school today. I promised I would be there."

"Not a problem. I'll need to take Paul back to my place anyway," you say. "Talk to him. . about this."

"You'll be alright?" she asks you, finally looking at you again.

"I'll be fine," you grin slightly. You've locked eyes again and you know this staring contest will just turn into another make out session. You know this because you're fighting that urge right now. You reluctantly gesture toward the dash, "You need to start the car. Again."

"Right. Right," Catherine says, chuckling to herself and revving the engine.

After you finally arrive at PD and Jim wholeheartedly gives you the glare of death for being late, both you and Catherine are all business again. You keep a healthy distance of one or two feet between you and all words exchanged deal with the case.

It kinda scares you how quickly you both revert back to work mode without hesitation. You've managed to make such a groundbreaking moment in both your lives a distant memory.

Not too distant, you hope.

* * *

After a quick rundown of current events, you meet with Mrs. Wright's son to talk with him. His court appointed lawyer, the ever-so-charming Adam Matthews, is surprisingly quiet while you and Catherine go through some routine questions.

"I take it you and your mother aren't close," you say.

Well, you finally found him. Jonas Wright. He looks to be very accomplished; blue suit and tie, closely cropped hair. His background reveals, however, that he is a mere salesman. A traveling salesman. The company that employs him springs for a car and hotel room while he traverses from city to city selling their product. It leaves little time for him to visit family, or so he says.

"Mom stopped talking to me years ago," Jonas shrugs. "Probably because I left."

"I wouldn't say she stopped talking," Catherine jumps in. She pushes phone records forward. "More like you wouldn't answer her calls. Why is that?"

Jonas rubs his face, glancing at his lawyer for a second. He turns back to you. "Look, Mom was sick. She called me because she forgot we weren't really speaking, okay? On occasion, I had to remind her that I was living my own life. I told her to find one of her own."

You squint your eyes. Jonas' words sound suspiciously familiar. Flashback to the day you picked up Paul at Child Services and you understand why. You told Paul that things were different. That your life had changed. That his life had changed too. You pressingly reminded him that both your lives were separate from one another. It's moments like these you wonder, how different are you really from the suspects you question daily? How different are you from Jonas?

Jonas finishes, "Mom would never hear it, though. No matter how many times I told her."

You lean forward now, "She wouldn't let you live your own life, would she? Telling her just wasn't enough anymore, which is why you went to visit her. You had to find other ways to convince her to leave you alone." You, too, push forward your own paperwork. "You bought a ticket to Vegas, the week she was discovered missing. Coincidence?"

"I wasn't there," Jonas insists.

"Mr. Wright isn't denying he was in Vegas," Matthews clarifies. "He has an apartment here. He's saying he wasn't at his mother's residence."

"You can't pass this off as a business trip, Jonas," Catherine warns him. "We know you paid for this trip all on your own."

Jonas rolls his eyes. "Look, I wouldn't have been caught dead in a place like that. Mom's house was a death trap. I hear one of ya'll found that out the hard way."

You know Jonas wasn't directing that comment at you, but it sure felt like a personal jab to your ego.

Jonas continues, "It was one of things we fought over all the time. She just wouldn't sell the damn house. It was only a matter of time before someone got hurt. . .or fell through the floor."

"Then why were you in Vegas?" you ask. "If not to visit your mother, why?"

"Don't answer that. . . .Look, unless you have physical evidence my client was there, this conversation is over," Matthews says. "From what I hear, most physical evidence was washed away and that's why you're fishing with my client."

Neither you or Catherine say anything. Matthews is right. You have yet to find the garden hose or power washer, but it's not a secret someone washed the house down. Just like rain ruins an outdoor crime scene, the water drenched Termite House has little to offer in way of physical evidence.

"Look, we have enough reasonable doubt to consider you for murder," Jim steps in. "You were in town at the time of her disappearance, you clearly have a grudge against her. We can't definitively pin you to this yet, but don't go too far. We've got a warrant to search your Vegas apartment."

"On what grounds?" Adam asks, snatching the paper.

"Jonas used to run a gun shop in Vegas," Catherine says. "Considering Mom was shot with a .22 and we still don't have the murder weapon, the judge agreed Jonas' apartment was a good place to start looking."

"I don't even live there, you won't find anything," Jonas protests.

"Jonas, quiet," Adam advises.

"I moved out before the lease was up," Jonas insists. "There's nothing there."

"We'll see, momma's boy," Jim retorts.

* * *

And you were worried that the closeness you had achieved with Catherine would be forgotten.

You barely made it to her front door before she pulled you in close. She traced the outline of your lips once with her thumb before kissing you. Long and languid, you both took your time, allowed yourselves to really bask in the opportunity given to you. There was no Jim insistently ringing your phones, no Greg making lovey-dovey eyes in the lab, no Hodges trying to dig for information. Nothing.

Just you and Catherine on her front porch, kissing as if you have all the time in the world. One minor detail does interrupt the bliss and you have to stop. You look at her apologetically, explaining, "Paul has the tendency to just open doors. . ."

"Right," Catherine nods, finally fishing for her keys in her purse. She goes to unlock the front door, but before she opens it, she asks, "You want to talk to him first?"

"Yeah, I think that would be best," you say. "I've never known Paul to be close-minded, but he didn't take too well to my last girlfriend." Then you add thoughtfully, "Or the boyfriend before her. Or the guy before him."

Catherine smirks, "I take it he doesn't let you date anyone."

"Not without prejudice," you sigh. "I'm all he has. He sees any significant other as invading his turf. Of course, that was five years ago. Maybe he's changed."

Catherine flashes you a sly smile, landing a searing (yet all too quick) kiss to your lips. She says confidently, "Well, Paul already likes me."

Yes. Yes he does.

Just before Catherine opens the door, she brushes her thumb against your bottom lip again. It would be silly not to admit that your eyes fluttered at the touch. Her intent wasn't to make your heart all gooey, however. She grins at you, probably pleased she has some power over your reflexes, then explains, "Paul might notice the lipstick. . .considering you don't really wear any."

Good point. You nod your agreement (because you certainly can't speak).

You follow her inside, using your forefinger and thumb to wipe away any more potential evidence you've been making out with Catherine.

She immediately heads upstairs to check on Lindsey. Paul is already up, watching television. If he heard the cars pull into the driveway, he didn't show it. You walk over to him, asking, "Ready to go?"

"Watching Emeril," he states, not once letting his eyes stray from the screen. He really likes those cooking shows.

"Well, Catherine and Lindsey have to get ready for a school thing," you tell him. "We gotta go."

"Not yet," he whines, still unable to pull his eyes away from the screen. Well, you can help with that. You grab the remote and cut off the television. This makes him turn to you. "Sara! I was watching that!"

"And I said we have to go," you say sternly.

Paul stands, now toe to toe with you. You think he might push you again. You think he's pondering the possibility of fighting you. Standing this close, he can look you in the eyes; glare at you with a simmering anger that you used to feel all too often yourself. He mutters, "You suck."

"Grow up," you tell him. "Now get your stuff."

He steps forward, closing the distance. His threatening posture is angering you. Unlike the last time Paul pushed you, this time your arm is free of its cast. You can stand on your own two feet and you can prepare yourself for any physical attack. In fact, you surprise yourself when you challenge him, "You gonna hit me, Paul? Over a stupid tv show?"

Paul's irritated expression falls a little. "Why would I hit you?"

"Considering you're in my face right now, what am I to think?" you tell him. "Don't forget. You have come at me before."

"I didn't. . .you wouldn't. . ., " he argues weakly, then quiets quickly. He backs off. He mumbles something about getting his bag and disappears up the stairs to retrieve it. You watch him, a little surprised he backed off so easily.

You want to hide the shame you feel creeping in, but it's there. You jumped the gun there. You assumed Paul would get violent, but were you wrong to assume that? He slowly descends the stairs, bag on his shoulder and he won't look at you. You sigh deeply. "Hey. Paul?"

He looks up, still silent.

"I think we should talk," you begin, but have trouble finishing your thought. You should talk about what, exactly? The fact that Catherine is practically your girlfriend now? Or your fear that Paul might be violent? That he might be uncontrollable? You decide to discuss something else. "I talked to Grissom, at work. You remember him?"

Paul nods.

"He recommended one of the department psychiatrists," you explain. "Someone he trusts."

* * *

"I wanted to say thank you for. . .."

"I owed Grissom a favor," the petite, redhead literally huffs at you.

Oh. Well now. You can already tell this will be fun. You sit in the available chair, force a smile at the woman across from you.

Dr. Lisa Wiseman. Yet another woman Grissom befriended or pissed off (you're not sure which one yet). Another woman he cashed in on for a favor. Another woman who is giving you that . . . green-eyed monster look? Okay, that's a bit weird. Why would she look at you like that? She doesn't even know you.

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, deeply questioning the nature of Grissom's relationship with Dr. Wiseman. How close are they? Did Grissom confide in her like he would with Catherine? Most importantly, is she aware that you. . .

"So you're Sara," she says sharply, her tone colored with a hint of disdain.

Well, that answers _that_ question. Also explains the green-eyed monster look. If you weren't already anxious about this whole thing, you certainly are now.

"Y-yes," you stammer out. "I mean, yes. I'm Sara. Sidle."

"Nice to finally meet you," she says.

"Really?" you blurt out. To this, she gives you a funny look. Stupidly, you try to explain. "I guess what I mean is, you don't seem to like me. Very much. And we've only just met."

Lisa adjusts her glasses, previously perched on the tip of her nose. With narrowing eyes, she pointedly ignores what you just said and gets down to business, "So, the arrangement is this: Your brother is my real patient and you're just here for show."

You squint your eyes some, then mildly protest, "Well, I wouldn't put it that way. . ."

"And I'll need your insurance card. What is the LVPD? Blue Cross/Blue Shield?"

"Actually, I don't really work under. . .," you begin, but her impatient scowl stops you mid sentence. Instead, you reach for your wallet and smile nervously. "Yeah, Blue Cross/Blue Shield."

You hand over the card, nod when she excuses herself for a moment, then exhale all the air you were holding when she shuts the door behind her. Um, what the hell was that? You mumble aloud, "Holy mother of . . ."

She's back, faster than you ever dreamed possible. She gives your card back to you, then sits behind the desk. She's not one to beat around the bush, as you soon find out.

"Listen, Sara. My services don't normally work this way and to be frank, I feel you need therapy more than Paul does."

Your eyes widen at that. "You haven't even _met _Paul yet. . ."

"Furthermore, you're right. I don't like you very much at all. Grissom and I go way back. Back further than your brief rendevous with him seven years ago."

Did you just audibly gulp? Yeah, you just gulped. Loudly.

"Lastly, I strongly recommend you do more than sit in here for an hour pretending to talk to me. In fact, I can arrange it so that both you and Paul can have back-to-back sessions. Does that work for you?"

Okay, seriously? Is this seriously happening? You go to speak, but you're not quite sure what to say. You make several attempts to open your mouth and talk, but nothing comes out. Yeah, you're _that_ flabbergasted. This woman has rendered you completely immobile.

"Sara, does that work for you?"

"No!" you say assertively. Yay! Points for you! Speech!

"No?" she repeats.

You lean forward now, finally ready to take a stand, to defend yourself. "I don't know what you think you know about me, but I assure you it's all wrong. _Furthermore_, my 'brief rendevous' with Grissom consisted of bug talk over lukewarm cafeteria coffee. _Lastly_, if I'm going to accept any kind of 'charitable' therapy from anyone, rest assured it won't be from you."

Lisa nods, mostly as an automatic gesture, then says, "Are you done?"

"No, I'm not done," you say defiantly. "If you're pissed at me for the reasons I suspect, than let's get one thing straight: he rejected me. Several times. Not the other way around. If you're on Grissom's side out of some sense of loyalty, I'll respect that, but I won't be treated like some two-bit hooker off the street and I won't be looked down upon, is that clear?"

Lisa smiles. "Crystal."

"Good," you huff out, leaning back in your chair again. You add thoughtfully, "I told him what would happen."

"I know, Sara," Lisa says.

You furrow your brow curiously. "You know? You know what?"

"I know Grissom," she says cryptically. "And by the sound of it, you know him too."

"I do?" you say.

"Yes, you know how frustratingly charming he can be. Most any woman in his life would need a little bit of therapy to recover from that," she grins now. "How is Catherine doing, by the way? She has the patience of a saint."

You laugh nervously. "Was that a joke?"

"A mean-spirited joke at Grissom's expense, but a joke nonetheless," Lisa admits.

You fold your arms, lean back in your seat. "And you know Catherine?"

"I do."

You ask, voice somewhat shaky. "Should you know this much about me and my colleagues?"

Lisa's mouth forms a taut grin. "I didn't know anything about you, save what little Grissom has told me over the years. Everything I know now, I just learned."

"What the hell did you just learn?" you ask, voice rising.

"Well, my mention of Catherine certainly shook you. You folded your arms, laughed nervously and completely closed yourself off to me. Why is that?"

You _hate _psychiatrists. You immediately unfold your arms and sit up, "No reason. I just don't think. . ."

Lisa interrupts you. Again.

"Welcome to your first therapy session, Sara. Now that I have some sense of your personality, I can see how you reflect on Paul and his resulting behavior."

Um, stop. Rewind. First therapy session?

"So, let me get this straight," you say slowly, shaking your head in disbelief. "This was all a set-up? You don't hate me for no reason?"

"I can't hate you if I don't know you, Sara," Lisa states simply.

You struggle for words, for how to feel. "Then why. . .?"

"Because I needed a real reaction. I needed to _really_ meet you, Sara. Grissom warned me you would probably clam up on me. He advised I do what was necessary to force you to . . .open up."

"By making me feel guilty about my association with my boss?" you ask, incredulously.

"Can't deny that it worked," Lisa shrugs.

"The same boss who recommended you to me?" you say, as if the answer will change.

Lisa nods. "Yes. Same guy."

"You. . .he. . .you are. . .," you stammer.

"_You _and Paul," she interrupts. "Are good for tomorrow morning? After you get off work? I have a two hour block early, at around 7 am."

She's relentless, you'll give her that. You still don't know what to say either. You're pissed off, but you don't know why. Could be that she exploited your feelings for Grissom, or maybe she exploited his feelings for you? Or maybe you're pissed because she found a vulnerability in your armor. She perceptively and speedily figured out what to say to tick you off. She. . .she. . .she's looking at you, expectantly.

"What? Not gonna ask me how I'm feeling now?" you snarl at her, your bewilderment overwhelming you.

"No, I have a pretty good idea of how you're feeling right now and you avoided answering my previous question," Lisa responds promptly. "Do you avoid answering questions a lot?"

You give a half shrug, then say, "Uh, yeah. I mean, no, I don't avoid answering questions and yeah. I guess tomorrow morning is okay...Listen, I'm confused."

"I suspected."

"Is this arrangement even. . .ethical? Shouldn't I really see someone else? How can you juggle seeing both my brother and myself and not breach confidentially?"

"But Sara, you're not really here," Lisa reminds you. "Paul is my real patient."

You take another moment, you process her words. Ah. Bingo.

"This is one of those 'see no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil' things," you finally deduce.

"I won't say anything as long as you don't," Lisa confirms. "Consider me your pocket psychiatrist. If you ever need someone to bitch at, someone who won't judge you, then I'm here. Our sessions will never be official. I'll never write anything down or record anything. It'll be like you were never here. As for Paul, he will never know what we talk about just as you will never know what Paul and I talk about."

Well, that only leaves one question for you. "Why are you doing this for me? For my brother?"

"Like I said," Lisa grins slyly. "I owed Grissom a favor. Plus, he really cares about you."

You smile back uneasily. Grissom always had a weird way of showing he cared for you. Setting you up for disaster with a psychiatrist (who knows of your history with Grissom) certainly qualifies as weird. You glance around for a moment, then ask, "Are we done?"

Lisa looks at her watch, then back to you. "I don't know, Sara. Are we done?"

You were going to stand up to leave, but you remain seated. Are you done here? It wouldn't hurt to talk about a few things, right? No, it wouldn't hurt. You decide there's something you need to get off your chest anyway. You say casually, "So, you asked about Catherine earlier?"

"I did. How is she?"

"How is she?" you repeat, to which Lisa nods. You shift again in your seat, licking your upper lip nervously. You release a short chuckle, then begin, "Well, Catherine is doing well. She's fine. I'm sorry, how much time do we have left?"

Lisa smiles knowingly. "Would you like to sit on the couch, Sara?"

You glance over your shoulder and do see a couch. You turn back to her. "No, I'm good right here. In this chair. Time?"

"Fifteen minutes left. You got something on your mind concerning Catherine?"

"I guess you could say that," you say, nodding. You open your mouth, don't say anything, then blurt out, "I think we're dating."

Much to your amusement, Lisa's eyes go wide. Softly, she says, "_Oh._"

To be continued. . .


	14. Unfocused

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Notes:Oo, it's been a little while, huh? I was trying for the weekly update thing, but this is almost going on three weeks since the last chapter? Guess I can only blame real life and a bit of writer's block on that, but I'm back with some new stuff. A huge thanks for the comments. Again, they keep me going. I reread them, actually. They give me inspiration, so thanks. Enjoy the next bit and I'll try to update weekly like I was trying to do before.

**Chapter Fourteen**

**Unfocused**

_It's quite clear you feel strongly for her. _

You blink your eyes, bring the evidence back into focus. Work, Sara. Focus on work, damn it. Hold the camera, snap a few photos. It's easy. Focus on work.

It's a bit hard to focus on work, however, when all you can think about is your "session" with Lisa and that chat about Catherine. God, you couldn't even confirm if the relationship was real. 'I think we're dating', you said. You think? How could you not know? Or maybe you just can't believe her feelings for you are true.

_Life is about taking chances, Sara. It would seem Catherine is willing to take a chance on you._

'Catherine is adventurous!,' you argued. 'She's fearless,' you said. That was a lie, though. Catherine does fear, she is afraid. She told you so. She said the prospect of starting a new relationship scared her, but that didn't keep her from kissing you on her front porch that morning. That's where she and you differ. Once you realize a fear, you try to hide from it. When Catherine admits a fear, she thrives on it.

You blink again. Evidence. Focus.

You can't focus. God, this will drive you insane!

Batty! Crazy!

You used to wonder what it took to categorize someone as 'crazy'. You used to blame fatigue for your craziness. You blamed your environment, your co-workers, your family history but was that really the source? Maybe. Or maybe the blame should lie within yourself. Maybe you think you're crazy because you thought that's how _others_ viewed you.

Or maybe thinking those kinds of thoughts _are_ crazy.

Greg enters the garage and you unceremoniously proclaim to him, "Greg, I've lost my mind."

"Haven't we all?" he quips. He doesn't get it, not that he should. You love him anyway.

Crazy. Maybe it's time you reevaluated the word. You've used the term as a harsh moniker for far too long. You've seen crazy. You've seen it in the cases you have worked and you've been mixed up in crazy situations, but _you_ are not crazy.

_Do you believe Paul is crazy, Sara?_

You don't really remember when the topic switched from Catherine to Paul, but it did. Lisa asked this question, right before you walked out the door.

_I only ask because if you believe he is crazy, your beliefs will rub off on him. Maybe not directly, but every human perceives fear. If Paul believes you're afraid of him because you think he's crazy, he'll start to believe he's crazy too. _

Snap. Flash! You lower the camera from your face, study the charred material in front of you.

Do you believe Paul is crazy? No. Not anymore.

"Oh, found some burned clothes in the trunk," Greg tells you.

"Process it," you say absently, finally the urge to work on this evidence stronger than your memories. Lisa and her words fade away and all that remains is the case sitting in front of you.

The current batch of evidence consists of a burned up car (which you are snapping photos of), a duffle bag of clothes just found in the truck by Greg and various hair fibers you discovered in the glove compartment. The fibers didn't burn up like every thing else, so you assume some kind of synthetic material.

"So, you and Cath going on a date?"

You roll your eyes and say nothing. Your silence doesn't stop him. Greg continues chattering, saying something about a date and Catherine and a rodeo?

You snap another photo of the interior, pause, then look up, "I'm not sure Catherine would go for that, Greg. And why are we even having this conversation?"

"I seem to remember you asking," Greg replies, winking at you. He's going through the clothes as he speaks.

"No," you say, shaking your head. You stand to your feet, walk over to where he is working and insist, "No, I didn't ask you anything. You came in here _asking me_ if I was going on a date with Catherine. A question I pointedly ignored."

"I took your silence as a 'yes'. Sue me," Greg jokes, then sets his camera down on the lab table. He looks off, thinking aloud. "Now Nick told me once he took a girl to a rodeo on a first date. That would be fun. You and Cath. Rodeo."

You quirk an eyebrow. "A rodeo?"

"Yeah!" Greg says enthusiastically. "It'd be awesome! Bulls running around. Guys being thrown into the dirt. Hot girls running around in cowgirl hats and cowgirl boots. Fun!"

"Yeah, fun for a cowpoke," you retort.

"Hey, now. Don't knock the rodeo," Nick says, entering the garage. You roll your eyes at him now. How is it you always wind up here? With Nick and Greg? Discussing Catherine? Someone is punishing you, you think. That's it. This is some form of punishment.

Nick continues, "Oh yeah, turned out that whole thing turned her on. Let's just say, we did a little role play later that night. . ."

Ugh.

"Nice!" Greg says, pounding fists with Nick. His way of saying 'kudos', you suppose. "So, was she the bull or the rider?"

"Okay, enough! I don't want to hear this!" you say, effectively keeping Nick from answering the question. You brush past him to get back to the car and say, "Unless you're here to help process evidence, Nick, I suggest you leave. And take your sexual exploits with you."

"You're right. This is an ill-timed conversation. I'll leave now," Nick acknowledges. He goes to exit, but not before he says cheekily, "Yo, Greg. She was the rider."

"_Sweeeet!_"

"Seriously, Nick? Did you just go there?" you say, glaring at him. Nick grins elfishly as he skips out of your sight. You turn to Greg, who catches your no-nonsense glare and immediately returns to processing the clothes. You return to your work on the car.

A few minutes pass with nothing. Greg is suddenly quiet and that unnerves you. When Greg is quiet, something is wrong with the universe. You glance at him and you can tell he's itching to say something totally inappropriate. With a deep sigh, you give in to curiosity. "Okay, Greg. What is it?"

You look at him, watch the sly grin widen on his face. He shrugs at you. "Well, I guess I never pictured Nicky as a bottom before."

You had to ask.

"Okay. I'm done. You can finish processing the clothes _and_ the car," you say, standing, setting your camera on a nearby table.

You don't even bother teasing Greg about his 'picturing Nick' comment because that would only perpetuate this asinine conversation more. . .and Greg will whine that he doesn't have the hots for Nick, even if the rest of the lab thinks so.

"Aww, Sara!" Greg calls after you. You ignore him, heading for the locker room.

"Sara! It was a joke! You can't leave me to do this by myself!"

Scratch that. You need a _real _place to hide from Greg and the locker room is open to everyone.

"Sara, I'm sorry!"

He's still following you!

You pause outside Catherine's office doorway and say, "Make Nick help you! It's like you said! He likes taking orders!"

With that, you shut Catherine's office door behind you, muffling Greg's voice. You lean against her door, exhausted. Yeah. Greg Sanders, even in small doses, can be that taxing. You push yourself off the door, noticing the office is empty. You haven't seen Catherine all shift, come to think of it.

You plop down in Catherine's office chair, a place you find yourself a lot lately. It's a good place to think. Private. No one else dares to just walk in here, not like you. You have to smile to yourself. Being Cath's girlfriend does have its advantages.

One little thing is eating at you, though. The date. You hate Greg for bringing it up because you still have no clue what to do about it. You asked Catherine to dinner and then. . .. Then what? Life happened? Or maybe Paul happened. You haven't figured out how to tell Paul yet, or even if you should. Maybe you'll tell him after you see Lisa in the morning. That will be a good time, you suppose.

Now. The date. You rub your eyes, searching that brain of yours for something extraordinary, something fantastic. A dinner date at some fancy restaurant is just so 'everyday' and Catherine has been on many first dates. Dates that you're most certain took place in some fancy restaurant. And even if you were considering something unconventional, like a rodeo, that prospect no longer sounds appealing. You have Nick and Greg to thank for that.

The door opens and there's Catherine. With Grissom.

You stand up out of her chair so fast, your own head spins. You scoot around her desk, now in front of it and say meekly, "Hey."

"Hey," Catherine greets you, than looks at Grissom. "I'll give you an update later. Is that okay?"

Grissom acknowledges you first, an almost undetectable nod, before he answers, "That's fine, Catherine. Jim called. Told me he would be here shortly to talk with you about Jonas Wright."

Grissom exits, Catherine shuts the door behind him. She turns to you, half smiling. "You okay, Sara?"

"Fine," you say, chuckling. "I just didn't expect. . .Grissom."

"He works here too, Sara," Catherine teases, walking past you to get behind her desk.

"That's not what I meant," you say. "I mean, I shouldn't let him catch me getting comfortable in your office. He's still our boss and he still reports to Ecklie. I don't want to put him in a tough position."

"Understandable," Catherine agrees. She sits in her chair, asking, "So, why are you getting comfortable in my office? Missed me?"

"Always," you say, voice barely audible. You see a hint of red on her cheeks as she smiles at you. It's been an entire 24 hours since you last held Catherine and you don't want to wait another minute. Within milliseconds, you've pulled her to her feet and into your arms. You whisper into her hair, "You smell nice."

"And you smell like motor oil," Catherine replies, somewhat disgustedly .

You pull back, just enough to look in her eyes. "Haven't you heard? Motor oil. All the girls wear it now."

"Heh, not this girl," Catherine says, extricating herself from your arms. "Sara, I love you, but you gotta get cleaned up. Or at the very least, change out of those coveralls."

"Aw, I think you'd look nice with a dark smudge on your cheek," you rag, waving about your thumb, threatening to smear car dreck onto her face.

Catherine gives a wary smile. "Sara. I'm serious. Don't even think about it."

A phone rings, much to your dismay. It's always a phone that reminds you of reality. You both look in your pockets. This time, you're the guilty culprit. The caller ID says Paul. _Wonderful_.

"Hey, Paul," you answer.

"I don't wanna see the doctor anymore. And I can't sleep."

"What? Why?" you say.

"The pillows suck."

You shut your eyes tightly, before replying tiredly. "No, I mean, why don't you want to see the doctor? We already set it up. Cancelling now would be . . .rude."

"She won't like me. She'll send me back."

You sit down now. You say, "We talked about this, Paul. You're not going back. No matter what she says. She told me, all she wants is to help."

There's a short pause. He's thinking, you suppose.

"Are you with Catherine?" he asks.

You look up at her, then confirm. "Uh, yeah. She's here."

"Can I talk to her?"

You almost ask, why won't you talk to me? You'd hate to admit you're still a bit green around the edges when it comes to Paul's relationship with Catherine. It's like he almost needs her approval for everything.

"Sara, give her the phone," Paul whines, since you're obviously taking too long to answer.

"Sure, fine," you sigh, reluctantly. You hold up the phone for Catherine to take. "He wants to talk to you. And try not to baby him."

"I know, Sara," Catherine says, exasperated. She takes the phone from you and her voice raises about an octave when she says, "Hey, Paul. How ya doing, sweetheart? Everything alright at the house?"

You roll your eyes for what has to be the umpteenth time today. She's using the 'baby voice'. You told her not to baby him and she's doing it anyway. You reach for the phone. "Okay, give it back."

"Sara," she protests, backing away from you. "No, Paul. I'm still here. Your sister is just . . .Well, I wasn't going to say 'annoying', but sure. She's being annoying."

"Don't agree with him!" you hiss. "Give me the phone!"

"Well, if you don't go, Sara will be all by her lonesome," Catherine coos. Ugh, she's cooing!

"Cath, give me back my phone."

"No, we don't want that Paul," Catherine continues to speak, maneuvering around the office with great ease. She's avoiding all your attempts at taking the phone, which is only pissing you off more. "Okay, Paul. I'll tell her."

She flips your phone shut, smiles. "He's decided that he won't let you go alone to see the psychiatrist."

"He's going?" you ask dumbly.

"He's going," she says simply. She tosses your phone back to you and winks. "I told you. Paul likes me."

You feel a grin slowly forming on your face, your gaze softening as she takes a tiny step closer to you. You just don't know what it is anymore. You were bitter, angry that she was cooing at Paul like he was some eight year old and now? Now you're just dumbstruck, resisting every urge to just kiss her senseless. She knows how pliable you can be, how easily she can manipulate you and surprisingly, all that does is draw you closer to the flame. When the hell did you become so enraptured?

There's a cough in the doorway, it startles you both. You whirl around, find Jim Brass standing there. You wonder how long he's been there, how much of that last conversation he heard or saw. You don't even remember hearing the door open.

He doesn't really smile at you or anything, but you have a good idea of what's going through his head. He's noticed how much time you spend with Catherine and it's not because of the Termite House case.

"Hey, Jim. Grissom said you were stopping by," Catherine speaks up first, stepping forward.

"Yeah, after our chat with Jonas, he disappeared," Jim explains, entering the office completely. He doesn't comment on what he saw or heard, which could reasonably lead you to believe he saw or heard nothing. . .but you know better. Jim Brass has ways of getting the dirt on people and he knows unequivocally about you and Catherine.

Getting your wits about you, you finally speak up, "Jonas disappeared?"

"Matthews swears he last talked to Jonas during the interrogation and hasn't a clue where the guy could be. I'm at the end of my rope with this kid."

"Well, we went though his apartment with a fine toothed comb," you say. "There was nothing, just like he said. No gun, no bullets, no evidence that he had even lived there in the last few months. About the only thing we found of significance were old family photographs sitting on the mantle. He was seen with both his mother and another man in most of the photos."

Catherine agrees. "Yeah, Jim. We suspect Jonas has a brother somewhere in the area, or at the very least a close guy pal. Although, now that you say he's missing, I wouldn't be surprised if Jonas wanted us to search his apartment. To distract us while he skipped town."

"Well, if you ladies can conjure up any reasonable location, I'm all ears," Jim pleads.

A reasonable location?

"The house," you say suddenly. You turn to Catherine, who looks somewhat confused. You repeat,"The house. He said it was the only thing he and his mother ever argued about. She wouldn't sell the house. Is there any way to find out if the house is historic? Does it have any value other than current market price?"

"I see where you're going with this," Catherine nods. "Or maybe the property itself has value. Jonas may have wanted to knock the house down, build something else on top of it, but since mommy dearest was paying the mortgage. . .."

"I'm sure I could ask around," Jim nods, hopeful. "You think he's there? At the house?"

"I think he's guilty and that's why he disappeared," you say.

"That's good enough for me," Jim says, whipping out his cell phone. "I'll call for back up. We're going back to that house."

Yay. You're going back. Back to the house of uncertain doom.

Sometimes, you wish you would keep your brilliant ideas to yourself.

* * *

Jonas' car is sitting in the driveway which only proves that your hunch is paying off. You had a very good feeling that Jonas was guilty and maybe you can finally solve the mystery of Termite House. You can finally figure out what the hell went down here. You can find justice for Mrs. Wright.

You stand by Catherine near a squad car, adjusting the bullet proof vest that Jim made you both wear. You don't know why you're wearing the bulky thing. You don't suspect you'll be the one getting shot at tonight.

Men dressed in black walk past you on feather light feet. You've always enjoyed watching law enforcement at work. The discipline, the choreographed dance they perform when setting up perimeter around a location. For a few moments, all the men in blue hold their guns in unison and place a target on the same object. They are one entity.

There's a slight breeze tonight, the wind sends a breathe of cool air up your jacket. You shiver, not only from the cold but from the memory of the last time you were here.

Thanks to a combination of heavily saturated wood and hungry termites, you fell through a second story floor and you thought you were going to die. You absently rub your wrist (the one that was in a cast) and you can almost feel how badly it hurt the first time you were here.

"You okay?" Catherine asks you softly. She snakes her fingers between yours, holds onto your hand tightly.

"I'm fine," you say, eyes transfixed on the old structure.

"If they clear the house, I'll understand if you don't want to go back inside," she tells you.

You look at her, smile nervously. "I can handle it, but thanks."

"Are you sure?" she asks.

"Yeah," you say confidently. Jokingly, you add, "I just won't go upstairs."

Jim walks by with another officer, asking, "You sure you saw movement inside?" The officer nods and you being to tingle with anticipation. Okay, so Jonas is in there. Now to see if he's smart enough to just give up.

"Jonas Wright!" Jim bellows through a megaphone. "We know you're inside! Step out slowly and this will all be over soon!"

Nothing. No movement or sound.

"Jonas Wright!" Jim warns one last time.

Pop! Pop!

Gunshots! You pull Catherine down behind the car, listen to the sudden chaos that has erupted inside the house. You hear someone shout, "The shots were contained inside! Move! Move! Move!" Both you and Catherine tentatively peer over the trunk of the squad car to get a better look. You watch about ten police officers storm the house, kick the door in and disappear inside.

"Damn it, Jonas," you whisper to yourself. All he had to do was turn himself in. Even if he didn't kill his mother, give up the guy who did. Now it was possible the only link to the answers you seek was dead. Jonas could be dead. Although, that does beg the question, who did the shooting?

Jim and another detective follow the group in last. That leaves you and Catherine outside alone, with only one other officer ducked down behind a car to your left.

You don't know why, but you get this urge to look to your right. The house is a buzz with activity and that's when you see him. Out a first floor window goes a figure. Jonas? He plops down in the grass and starts running away. Without thinking, you stand and shout,"Suspect on the move!"

Your feet move of their own accord. You hear Catherine yell at you to come back, but suddenly, you're running full speed after a man who appears to be Jonas. Jonas is trying to escape!

_What the hell am I doing?_

That's the thought romping through your head as you run. It's quickly followed by, do I have my gun? Yes. Is it loaded? It better be.

You don't look back, you don't stop. With most of the officers stuck in the house investigating gunshots or possibly more shooters, you are the closest to the fleeing suspect. You have the best shot at stopping him.

The property surrounding Termite House is quite large. Fields of long grass go on for miles and your suspect is trying to get lost in them. With your gun drawn now, you follow him into the high grass and begin to slow. The grass comes up to your waist, the dry earth crackling under your feet. You don't see him anymore. You release the safety on your weapon.

Then his head pops up and you yell, "LVPD! Stop!"

He doesn't stop because he knows you won't shoot him. You won't shoot unless he advances on you. So he just runs again, which only prompts you to do the same. After a few minutes of running and shouting at him, you finally gain some ground. A few more yards and you might catch him. Then he stops, turns to you and points a weapon of his own in your direction.

"Oh shit. . .," you say, sliding to a stop, raising your gun to meet his. First thing you notice is the gun. It looks like a .22, but you can't be sure. The next thing you notice is the face. This man is not Jonas Wright. He's someone else.

You swallow hard, then try to reason. "Hey, there's no need for this."

"There ain't no way you're just gonna let me walk away, sweetie," the man says. "Not with Jonas. . .damn it. . ."

"Look, let me help you," you plead.

He answers by firing his weapon, which only forces you to discharge yours in return.

to be continued. . .


	15. Disorder

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Notes: All of the reviews have been amazing, so thank you! Hope you enjoy what's next. )

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Disorder**

After blinking a few times, you realize you're on the ground, lying on your back. Thankfully, you're still breathing. You can still move. You're still alive. You roll your eyes around, just to make sure the image of a darkened sky is real, then breathe in deep to smell the dry earth around you. You almost smile at the tranquility of it all, but then you remember why you're out here in the first place.

How did you end up on the ground? Were you shot? You don't know, but you do know that whatever trouble you're in, lying around won't help you.

You stand up, cautiously. Peeking out over top wispy strands of grass, you survey your surroundings and slowly recollect the past few minutes. You chased a guy out here, thinking it was Jonas but you were dead wrong. It wasn't Jonas and he had a gun. You both fired off a round at each other, probably out of self-defense and anxiousness. The next few moments are fuzzy after that.

Not that it matters. It's plain to see he's gone now.

You look around anxiously, wondering if you shot him. Maybe he fell over in the grass somewhere and that's why you don't see him. You doubt he got away. There's no way you missed.

As you begin to advance slowly, searching, you hear the bustle of boots running up behind you. The calvary.

"Sara!"

It's Jim. He's pissed. You're not surprised, but you won't acknowledge his pissed off state. You'll play this off as cooly as possible.

As the other officers run past to search for the mystery suspect, he grabs you by the arm to hold you back. He forcibly makes you look at him as he scolds, "That was stupid and you know better. It's my job to chase armed suspects, not yours."

"I had him," you argue weakly.

"No, you didn't," Jim says angrily. "Listen to me, Sara...Hey, Sidle."

You look at Jim.

"Next time you pull a stunt like that on me, I'm writing you up for insubordination or something, you understand?"

You almost feel he made a similar threat like this before and that this time, technically, should be the time he writes you up, but you'll keep that to yourself.

"I understand," you say absently.

"I'm serious, Sara!" Jim bellows.

"I got it, Jim," you almost snarl back. You have to watch your tone. He's livid and admittedly, chasing a man (who turned out to be armed and dangerous) _was_ moderately stupid. Okay, not moderately. It was absolutely stupid.

Jim grows uncharacteristically quiet as you both watch the team ahead, but they can't seem to find anything or anyone in this thick, dry grass. In fact, you notice for the first time a cluster of vegetation and trees not even a few yards ahead of you. The trees seem a bit unnatural and out of place, considering where you are. You wonder if the Wright family planted them years ago; an attempt to liven up the property. You wonder if there was a time when this house didn't look so gloomy. You wonder if the family was ever happy.

"Check in those trees," Jim says quietly into his radio. He's probably followed your line of sight, noticing how hard you're concentrating on them.

The air is far from clear between you and Jim, but you feel safe in speaking again. "It wasn't Jonas, Jim. I thought it was Jonas, but it's not. . ."

"Yeah, we know. Jonas is critical. He was inside the house and the guy _you_ chased shot him," Jim says, still seething. He does try to be somewhat equanimous, his words taking on a less threatening stance. "Look, just back off. Go back to the house. Focus on _your_ job. We'll find him."

There's nothing you can say to appease Jim, so you do as he says. The walk back to the house would be a long, shameful one, but Catherine is rushing toward you to meet you halfway. If you thought Jim was a tad scary when angry, the look on Catherine's face is downright frightening. When she is less than a few feet from you, she yells angrily, "Sara! What the hell were you thinking?"

You look down at your feet. "I. . .I'm not sure what I was thinking."

"Well, shit, Sara," Catherine huffs out. Her hands are on her hips, her eyes are narrow slits. She repeats angrily, "Shit. "

"Cath. . .," you begin to say.

"Shut-up," she growls at you, then unexpectedly pulls you in for a hug. You sorta expected her to hit you, or yell some more or something, but not a hug. You don't deserve a hug. She whispers in your ear, "Don't you ever run away from me like that again."

If you felt stupid after Jim yelled, you feel like a total jackass now that Catherine is on the verge of tears.

"Never, I'm sorry," you promise. "I'm sorry."

"You better be sorry," Catherine mumbles into your neck.

She squeezes you tighter and that's when you feel it. You moan aloud at the sudden pain shooting up from just below your collarbone and grind your teeth to keep from crying. You mutter,"Cath. . .let go, please."

Catherine pulls back, clearly concerned by your anguished tone. You put your hand over the spot where it hurts, then notice the indentation on your vest. Uh oh. You look down, just as Catherine confirms what you feel.

"You _were_ shot," she barely whispers, then reaches for the radio clipped to her belt. She's going to call for more help, but you don't think she has to.

"Catherine, wait, wait," you tell her, rolling your shoulder a bit. You place a finger over the hole in your vest and feel around. "I don't think I'm seriously hurt. I can still feel the bullet . . ."

She stops, produces a flashlight from that handy belt of hers and shines the light at your shoulder. She confirms, clearly relieved. "Yeah, it's still there. Embedded in the vest. It saved your life."

Hmm. So _that's_ why Jim made you wear this bulky thing.

You go to say something but you don't even have to ask, because Catherine is already leading you to the Tahoe. She retrieves her kit. She's going to collect the bullet from your vest.

You lean against the truck, the adrenalin high you were just on is finally wearing off. The vest saved your life. Now you have to wonder, what saved the mystery suspect's life? You're not a bad shot. Your gun was trained on his chest. You know you got him.

"Ah, don't push so hard," you tell her. Catherine is digging into the vest roughly (probably on purpose), then pulls the bullet out. She places it in a bag and holds it up for you both to see. You have to grin at the treasure just collected. "Bobby will have to confirm this, but that looks like a .22."

"Yeah," Catherine agrees. "I think you chased down both Mrs. Wright's murderer _and_ the murder weapon."

Pride involuntarily creeps in as it would seem your idiotic move to chase after an armed man is proving to be fruitful. Then you see medical personnel roll a gurney out the front door and down the porch steps of Termite House. It's Jonas and he's obviously had better days. The fiery young man you interrogated not even a night ago is very pale. You watch as he's rolled into the waiting ambulance.

"Catherine!" Jim is running back. "They found blood. Sara got somebody and by the looks of the blood pool, she got him good. Our guys can't find him, yet. He probably won't get far on foot. I've called in for more units and a helicopter to start canvassing the area."

"And hospitals, Jim," you say, almost shyly. You know he's still angry with you. "If he manages to get away, he might go to a hospital."

"I've already got security personnel on stand by at all the local hospitals," Jim says. Then he looks at Catherine, his voice pleading, "And collect her gun, _please._"

"With pleasure," Catherine nods, watching Jim hurry away.

You reluctantly hold up your weapon for Catherine to take. She does so without uttering another word and you sigh. "Cath. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have run after that guy."

"No, you shouldn't have," she says. She presses her lips together tightly, something you know she does when she's trying not to cry. You didn't want to make her cry. She forces a smile, then says, "But if you hadn't, he wouldn't have shot . . .We wouldn't have this bullet."

You nod, rolling your shoulder again. You push off the truck and suggest, "We can take this back to the lab? Call out Nick and Warrick to process the house and the blood out in the field?"

"Good idea," Catherine agrees. "I want you to see a medic too, Sara. You might have some bruising from. . .from when you. . ."

Her reluctance to finish the phrase strikes you hard and your heart suddenly feels more pain than any other physical trauma you may be suffering from. You ask quietly, "Did you see me. . .did you hear the gunshot and see me fall?"

"I knew you were hit, if that's what you're asking," Catherine says, her voice steely cold. She's trying not to cry.

"Catherine, I really am sorry. I didn't mean to. . ."

"You didn't mean to what, Sara? Scare the shit out of me?" Catherine retorts. She walks past you, putting both her kit and the collected bullet in the back of the truck. She bags your gun and orders, "Remove your vest as well."

You slowly take off the vest, hand it over to her. You say somberly, "I'll wait in the car. . ."

"Sara," she says, before you walk by. You look at her, see one tear trace a line down her cheek. She wipes it away, erases any evidence that it ever fell. "Sara, you ran out there, I heard a gun shot and then I couldn't see you. All I kept thinking was that I killed you. I brought you back to this God forsaken house and killed you."

"Hey, I was the idiot who ran out there. That's on me," you say quietly.

Catherine chuckles, the mirthful gesture dark and cold. "You know? Greg joked that Termite House was cursed."

"It's not cursed," you immediately protest.

She goes on," All of our evidence had been washed away or eaten through by termites."

You interject again. "The water was weird, yeah, but the termites were just doing what they do naturally. Doesn't mean the house is cur. . ."

"You fell through the floor, you could've died," Catherine says, another point you quickly counter.

"I didn't survey the room thoroughly enough before entering, Cath," you say as gently as possible. "The house is not cursed."

Catherine won't hear you and you doubt she ever will. "Sara, say what you want, but the facts are this: The owner of the house was later found dead. Jonas is being carted away to a hospital for gunshot wounds, you were shot and now the killer is on the loose somewhere. I don't usually put much stock in superstition, but this place. . ."

"Is _not_ cursed," you say firmly. "I'm just stupid. It was stupid."

"You're stupidly brave," she says, a small bit of sunshine in the words that makes you believe you're on the road to being forgiven. It'll be a long road, sure, but at least you're on it.

"And you're not a cop, Sara," she goes on.

"I know," you reply.

"I mean it. I'm not dating a cop," she pushes. "I don't want to date a cop. I don't want to date someone who I have to worry about chasing armed men through open fields, okay? You're not a cop."

"I'm not a cop," you repeat strongly. You lean over, plant a soft kiss on her cheek to seal that promise. You don't care if anyone sees you either. You need her to know you won't ever do that again. You pull back and let her finish packing up. You climb into the passenger side of the Tahoe and sigh deeply. You repeat to yourself, "I'm not a cop."

Catherine climbs into the car a few minutes later. She looks at you and you look at her.

This is something else you'll have to consider now. You don't live on your own anymore. You have people in your life that actually care where you go and what you do. From now on, you have to be adamant about leaving the more dangerous side of law enforcement to the cops. Your ghost would never forgive itself if you left Paul or Catherine behind.

Paul. Paul will freak out when he hears this.

You look out the window, a decision made. "Do me a favor and don't tell Paul."

"Sara," Catherine warns.

"Please. Don't tell him," you beg. "I scared him enough the first time I was hurt."

The ride back to the lab is suddenly longer than any other trip you remember. You do take a brief peek at your shoulder, lifting the fabric of your shirt slightly. Catherine is right. You are bruising from the impact. Damn it. When she takes a left turn, instead of a right, you worry less about the bruise and more about where she's taking you.

"Cath, lab is in the other direction."

"I told you, you're seeing a doctor."

"Hey, you forget that I have to take Paul to see Lisa in a few hours?" you say. "Going to the hospital now and I won't get out for another several hours. I promise, I'll get this looked at _after_ the session with Lisa, okay? I promise."

Catherine sighs, merging into a lane that'll enable her to make a u-turn. She says, "You've just made me quite a few promises in the last hour."

"And I intend to keep them," you say unwaveringly.

Catherine glances at you briefly before saying, "You better."

* * *

Catherine was still a bit chilly with you for the remainder of the shift, which in the past might've pissed you off. Now that you are in the very early goings of a relationship, that frosty nature of hers stings the heart more than it offends your ego. Clearly, she's happy you're alright and you sense more relief than anger. Unfortunately, after the stunt you just pulled, getting back into her good graces will take a bit of time.

And frankly, you don't really like to call it a 'stunt'. You knew what you were doing, mostly. You just didn't think of the repercussions of your actions. Hmm. Maybe that is the very definition of a 'stunt'.

You look at your watch. You've decided to keep this incident from Lisa. You don't know her well enough yet and despite what you discussed last time, there are still some things you'd like to keep to yourself. It's not like your sessions with her are official. It's okay to keep some things to yourself.

The door in front of you opens and out bounds Paul. You smile at him. The bounding. That's a good sign. You stand up, look at him, "Went okay?"

"Great," he replies happily. He plops down in a waiting chair. He gestures toward the door and Lisa, "Your turn."

You force another smile at him, then turn to Lisa with skeptical eyes. She grins and repeats, "Your turn."

You step forward, then look over your shoulder at Paul. "Don't go anywhere."

"I know," he says, rolling his eyes. "Wait here till you're done."

"I mean it, Paul," you say, taking another step toward Lisa.

"Sara, alright," Paul whines. He shoos you and you sigh. When you turn to Lisa, her grin only widens.

* * *

The moment Lisa shut that door and you sat down was the moment you started counting down the seconds till you could go home. The first talk with Lisa was somewhat on your terms. Today, this talk will be the real deal. Lisa will be in control.

The first few minutes are a rundown of basic questions. Were you abused as a child? You give sparse details on your childhood, mostly pointing out that Paul took the brunt of whatever abuse transpired in the house. Other questions included, how often do you feel depressed, if ever? Has your appetite changed recently? How are you sleeping? Boring questions, all of which you answer reluctantly and succinctly.

"So, I know you said I shouldn't just sit in here and pretend to talk to you, but maybe today we could just not talk about me," you suggest.

Lisa ignores you. Something you're still not quite used to.

"Catherine called me," Lisa announces randomly, absently flipping through a text on her desk. "She told me to remind you to see a doctor."

You suck in some air between your teeth, before responding,"She did what?"

Thus the real session begins. No more boring questions. No trying to escape early. Lisa is going to hit you with the tough stuff. Catherine may have or may not have mentioned what happened earlier that night at Termite House, so now your guileless stupidity would be the topic of discussion. Absolutely _fabulous_.

"I'm sorry. When exactly are we going to talk about Paul?" you ask, your voice sarcastically sweet.

"I've only had one session with Paul, there's not much to say and whether you like or not, you still have another 35 minutes with me. So, back to my question: You've purposely gone after suspects before. Once after a lab accident in which you were injured in an explosion and last night, when you revisited the same crime scene in which you fell through a floor. Yet another _accident_. Why do you think you put yourself in that situation not only once, but twice?"

You shut your eyes tightly, praying the next 35 minutes pass quickly. You actually like Lisa and that's what makes talking to her about yourself so difficult. It would be easier to blow off a psychiatrist you don't like, but unfortunately, Lisa is charming and persistent and witty and you _almost_ like talking to her. You like that she listens. You like that she doesn't give up on you and you like that she cares about Paul's well-being. Damn it, why the hell is she so likeable?

"I hate you," you mutter.

"No you don't and stop avoiding the question."

"I don't know why I did it. The first time, I guess I felt vulnerable and exposed. I thought the lab was supposed to be safe and it wasn't." You shift your gaze to a far wall, eyes landing on a bookshelf and you read the title of a book: _The Other Side of Eden. _You sigh and repeat, "The lab was supposed to be safe."

Lisa nods. "But it wasn't. You were hurt and so was . . .Greg?"

Lisa has done her homework on you and even though this session isn't official, you feel she's putting in more effort than she should. With another deep sigh, you confirm, "Yes, Greg was in the hospital for a while. He had the shakes for weeks. He dropped some crucial evidence once, almost lost it."

"And you?"

You shrug. "And me?"

"It's not in the official report, but pretty much everyone heard. You went into an apartment before it was cleared by the detective in charge. Greg wasn't the only one on the verge of 'losing it'."

In some ways, you're happy Grissom recommended Lisa to you. She works within the department, talks to cops, criminalists and detectives alike. She knows the hazards of your job, but that knowledge can also be a curse. She works within the department and just like any employee, she hears things. You're afraid no secret will ever be safe from Lisa and with these sessions being treated more like 'a friend helping a friend', she won't be afraid to expose your secrets. She won't be afraid to call you out.

"Sara?" she asks. You must've gotten lost in your thoughts, the way she's looking at you now. Her eyebrow raised, perplexed expression. "Still here, Sara?"

"You want an explanation? I don't have one. When I followed Jim to that apartment and drew my weapon. . .," you pause, looking back on that day. You drop your gaze down and away from Lisa's, the shame you felt then creeping back now. "I guess I wanted to feel invincible again. If I got that guy by myself, I would feel I was in control of . . ."

"Your destiny?" Lisa suggests.

You sigh, thinking that word is a little strong, but you agree. "Sure. Destiny."

Lisa nods. As she promised, she doesn't write anything down, but you feel like she should anyway. "Okay, so what about this time? Last night? Why did you chase that man out into the field?"

"Well, technically, I saw him before anyone else did and I was the closest," you recall. "It was just Catherine and myself. One other officer taking cover by his car, but he was further away. . .I just knew I had the best shot of running the guy down."

"Mmhmm," Lisa nods again. "Okay, so strategically, you were the closest "officer" on the scene." She uses her fingers to quote the word 'officer', a gesture you find to be a bit unnecessary.

Lisa continues, "But you mention something about having control. The crime scene you were returning to had claimed your control, it literally took the floor right out from under you and you were injured. Run me through how you felt after the fall."

"Why?"

"Sara, trust me. Just run me through it. Close your eyes."

You roll your eyes before you shut them.

"I saw that."

You smirk, before you force yourself to remember the fall. You begin,"I was face down after it was all over. I couldn't really hear anything for a while, then I made out one voice distinctly."

"Who?"

"Catherine," you answer. "She was already downstairs. She put her hand on my back, but pulled it back. I guess she thought that maybe I had a spinal injury or something. I remember that she was afraid to move me."

"Keep going."

"I. . .I wanted to move but she wouldn't let me. I guess if I were honest, I really couldn't move. My chest hurt, as did my wrist. I couldn't breathe after a while. . ."

You slowly open your eyes. "I thought I was dying." You add quickly, "Of course I was told later I was fine. I was panicking, not dying."

"But the point is you thought you were dying. So now, Sara, you return to the crime scene, the same one where you _strongly believed_ you were going to die. You see this man race out of the house and you run after him. You're back in control, making your own decisions. If you die here, it's not because of some random accident but because of a choice you made."

_If_ you die? So, you'd rather be able to say 'It's cool! It was my fault I died!' to whatever deity you meet in the afterlife?

You have to smile uneasily. "So. . .I have some disorder, right? Normal people don't purposely throw themselves into dangerous situations just to feel alive. That just happens in movies."

"High stress circumstances make even the most 'normal' of people act out in uncharacteristic ways," Lisa tells you. "You're not abnormal, Sara. You're just not apathetic to the fates. When destiny loses sight of you, you run out and catch it before it disappears. You have an idea of how life should be for you and it's not weird to dream. In this case, you occasionally like to act out the fantasy of chasing down a perp and shooting him with your gun."

"I have that fantasy?"

"Apparently so."

"You're just saying all that to make me feel less of an idiot," you say.

Lisa grins. "Maybe."

You chuckle. "Lisa, you are seriously too honest for your own good. You know, I _was_ feeling better."

There's a brief moment of silence, before Lisa says softly, "Sara?"

You look up at her again.

"When I say you're not apathetic to the fates, I mean that," Lisa says gently. "Your behavior, from what I have learned is indicative of that. You're strongly independent, self-willed and completely oblivious to your own needs. The only time you matter to yourself is when you feel you've lost control."

You swallow hard. "Is that so?"

"I think so, yeah," Lisa says. "You couldn't fight back as a child, you couldn't protect Paul. Now you can fight back. You don't let outside forces control you, or at least, you try very hard to control them. Paul is a good example of this. You literally placed him somewhere away from you, took him out of your life. You took away chaos and enveloped order. Life was simpler."

"Of course, it turned out, life got more complicated," you say, rubbing your eyes. "You make me out to be a cold person. I'm not cold."

"No, you're not," Lisa agrees. She doesn't elaborate as to why she suddenly agrees with you. She just leans back in her chair now, smiling slightly. "Welp, that killed ten minutes. We can discuss Paul now. Oh and Sara?"

You look up.

"You ever scare Catherine like that again, I might kill you for her," Lisa warns, her friendly smile belying the intentions of her threat.

You squint your eyes suspiciously. "Uh, how exactly do you know Catherine, again?"

"I met her through Grissom," Lisa answers, then stands from her chair.

"That's it?" you ask. "Just met her through Grissom?"

"That's it," she nods, looking for a text on one of her many bookshelves.

"Why do I seriously doubt that?" you ask aloud before you can stop yourself. Lisa doesn't answer, but you do notice an almost undetectable smirk as she pulls a book off the shelf.

Lisa returns to her desk and sits down, starts flipping through the pages. For once, she does reveal a bit of herself to you, speaking without looking up from her book. "We're colleagues, Sara."

"Colleagues," you repeat. That wouldn't be weird, of course. Lisa works for the LVPD, she has to make friends at work. She met Catherine through Grissom. Simple, yet highly dubious. You try to pry for more information because you just feel there's more to the story. "You're not close, then?"

"Not really. Her call today was the first one in nearly. . .four years," Lisa says, actually pausing long enough from her book to think about the answer. "Satisfied yet, or would you rather know if I slept with her too?"

Shit. Your face is turning all shades of red, seeing how you forgot who the hell you were talking to. She's a psychiatrist, damn it. Did you really think you could pry into her life without getting burned? You stammer out, "No, no, no...that's not what I was getting at. I was just. . ."

"Curious. I get it," Lisa finishes for you. Then she taps a page in the book, announcing, "Ah, here's what I was looking for."

Oh. Wow. She found what she was looking for and thankfully, that diverts all attention back to Paul and away from Catherine.

You try to relax because this is what you wanted. You wanted to discuss Paul, but you're frightened. You've never had one psychiatrist be straight with you. You've never had anyone say 'this is what I think you should do about your brother'. Lisa is about to help you with something you thought you'd never have help with.

Lisa's eyes soften. "You ready to talk about this?"

"Honestly, no," you say. "But this isn't about me."

to be continued. . .


	16. Evasion

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Notes: Many apologies for the delay in updates. Again. Thanks for all who replied and reviewed. I'm sorry if I didn't reply to your review individually. I try to get back to everyone.

**Chapter Sixteen**

**Evasion**

You keep saying this isn't about you, but deep down, you know it is.

Paul has been a the proverbial thorn in your side for as long as you can remember. You know his antics aren't always intentional and honestly, you know his behavior has improved tenfold in the last five years, but whatever Lisa tells you now could be the ultimate diagnosis. You've been waiting for this for many, many years.

"I know I told you I wanted a few sessions with Paul before I gave a prognosis, but I don't think I'll need to. . .ah, here we go. Borderline Personality Disorder."

"Borderline Personality Disorder," you repeat, as if you have a clue as to what Lisa is talking about. You look at her suspiciously, however, commenting, "I thought you said you didn't learn much about Paul today. Sounds like you got a good idea."

"I said that to keep you focused on my questions," Lisa answers. "You don't like talking about yourself."

"You lied to me," you say flatly.

"I kept you focused on my questions," she repeats. She turns the book toward you, to give you a good look at the material. She keeps talking. "This is about as close to a named disorder as I could get. You see, Paul doesn't necessarily suffer from any one particular disorder. You have to understand, it's really hard to diagnose anyone nowadays. There are literally hundreds of symptoms that can point to over 50 possibilities, but I think BPD is the best starting point."

"Ah," you nod. "So, what does that mean for Paul? Medication?"

"I don't think he needs that," Lisa shakes her head. "There's nothing to correct or to fix, as most people assume with the mentally disabled. Paul simply develops much slower than your average person and when I say develop, I obviously don't mean physically. Upon first glance, Paul appears to be just as normal as anyone."

She can say that again.

"While Paul is very smart, his decision making skills and reasoning are still that of a young child. I'll try not to bore you with details you already know, but from my initial study of our session together, I'd say Paul's maturity growth has reached its peak."

"Really?" you say.

"I'm not saying he can't grow in other ways, Sara, just that certain areas of his brain are not nearly as receptive as others," Lisa explains. "As for what I believe to be the cause of Paul's lack of maturity growth lies within a number of reasons, all of which you are probably aware of."

"Verbal and physical abuse, lack of a mother and father, constantly being shuffled around in the foster care system," you begin to list. "Physical trauma to his head."

"You got it," Lisa nods. She sits back in her chair. "Don't forget your abandonment."

Pause.

"Right," you nod.

Lisa smiles sympathetically. "He has attachment issues, Sara. He fears abandonment most right now and let me make clear: Don't blame yourself for this fear. I know you think Paul hates you for leaving him alone, but I think it's important you understand that his hate is misguided. Paul didn't just discover this fear overnight. It took many, many years, most likely starting in childhood. To him, you're the most important figure in his life. You're the first one he'll congratulate when something goes right and the first one to blame if something goes wrong."

"Wonderful," you mumble sarcastically. "Look, I love all your conjecture, but I'm a scientist. I need concrete definitions. What is BPD?"

Lisa smiles again, speaks apologetically. "Sorry. Okay, Borderline Personality Disorder is characterized by a pattern of unstable personal relationships (which is evidenced by your family history and his school history), a self-image that is not well formed, and poor impulse control. This person fears abandonment and will go to any length to prevent this, including threats of suicide and self-harm. Now Sara, don't be alarmed. . ."

"Suicide? You think it's possible that he's suicidal?" you ask worriedly.

"No, I don't think Paul is suicidal," Lisa answers confidently. "Sara, please, it's just a definition. A _general_ definition. It could mean all those things or none of those things. Like I said, people like Paul are hard to diagnose. Now there is one other possible definition you should consider. You expressed concern about him getting violent?"

You already feel queasy and you'd rather not talk about this anymore, but you have to know. You nod reluctantly.

"Reactive Attachment Disorder," Lisa begins. "This is characterized by the breakdown of the social ability in a child. It tends to be associated with the failure of the child to bond with a caretaker in infancy or early childhood. Again, the range of factors are common, most of which you know. The children may display either indiscriminate social extroversion as they grow older (treating all people as if they were their best friend) or showing mistrust of nearly everyone. Does that sound like Paul?"

You tap your finger on the arm of the chair. "I did think it was weird, when Paul first showed up in Vegas. He wanted to make friends. When we were kids, he could hardly keep any and now. . .Now he makes friends fairly easily, even if his methods of introducing himself are a bit unsettling."

"Unsettling, how?"

"Well, he tackled Nick to the floor. At first I thought it was a game, I just let it go."

"That is interesting, the fact that he attacked a man he hadn't previously met before," Lisa says.

You sit up, watching the enlightened look on Lisa's face. "What? Does that tell you something?"

Lisa shrugs. "Haven't a clue what that means."

You rub your temples, a bit frustrated. "Shouldn't psychiatrists be able to read into any kind of behavior?"

"Oh, Sara, cut me some slack here," Lisa laughs lightly. "This isn't Law and Order, okay? I can't conjure up the meaning to life whenever I feel like it. I can only observe and analyze and hope I get my prognosis right. Now I'm fairly certain Paul _mostly _suffers from BPD, but I wouldn't toss Reactive Attachment Disorder out the window just yet. Paul likes the people that are in his life now and I have a feeling he'll do whatever it takes to keep them."

"Including fighting with me if he thinks I'm ruining that?" you ask.

Lisa nods. "Yeah, unfortunately, I think Paul would do that. You just have to tread lightly with him, until I can determine the best way to. . .reprogram him. Reintroduce the social skills he should've learned as a child and hope he can implement those social skills in everyday situations."

"So, I probably shouldn't mention Cath to him yet," you muse aloud.

"Normally, I would say be honest with him, but Paul really likes Catherine," Lisa says. "I would agree with you. Hold off on announcing your relationship with Catherine for now. You did say he didn't take too well to your other partners?"

"Yeah, I said that," you nod, checking the time. "Times up?"

"Yeah, I guess it is," Lisa says, smiling. "Now, Sara. Don't be discouraged. What we've discussed today is about the best thing you could've hoped for. We can work with him, okay?"

"Thanks, Lisa. Really."

She leads you to the door, opens it. You step out and see Paul spread out on one of the couches. He sits up when he sees you, smiles widely. "She's great, right? It went okay?"

"Hey, you were the one who didn't want to show up today," you tell him.

"That's not true," Paul says, winking at you. He looks at Lisa. "I wanted to be here."

Lisa plays along. "I know, Paul. I'll see you next week, okay?"

"Okay," he beams at her. He stands to walk out with you. "I like her a lot."

You look at him. You look at the scraggly, dark hair. You see the beard on his face. You hear the deep baritone, the one that fools you on occasion. Makes you think Paul is fully matured and normal. You see a man.

_The children may display indiscriminate social extroversion as they grow older (treating all people as if they were their best friend). _

He's not normal though. He's a boy in a man's body and now he has made a fast friend in Lisa. Maybe a little too fast.

You can only agree with him. "Yeah, I like Lisa too, buddy."

"Did you talk about me?" Paul asks, grinning. "Talk about how great I am? Cuz when we talked, I told Lisa how great you are."

This actually makes you laugh. You stop him, just before he climbs into your car and hug him to you. He hugs you back and you say, "I told her that I love my little brother. That I always will."

Paul pulls back a little, to look at your face. He says, "I love you too, Sara. You don't suck."

Why is it that Paul always makes you want to turn into a sniveling girl?

"I'm glad you love me," you say, letting him go, holding off any tears.

"Why?" he asks.

You half smile. "Because we have to make one last pit stop before we go home."

Paul makes a face. He already knows where you'll be taking him.

* * *

"Hey, Sara, I got your message," David says as you enter, pushing through the double doors. Paul is in tow, his eyes flitting about the room anxiously. Morgues aren't exactly one of Paul's favorite places to visit. He wanders ahead of you, though, clearly curious. You stand by David, and say, "I really appreciate this, Dave."

"You owe me big for this," he reminds you. "I mean, buy me a 'steak and lobster dinner with a bottle of wine' big."

"Sure, sure," you say absently to the young coroner. You glance up just in time to see Paul about to pull on a freezer door handle. You scold immediately, "Hey! I said don't touch anything!"

Paul virtually jumps out of his skin, flies backward and hits another empty slab. His left palm lands on the shiny, cold surface and he yanks it back fearfully. He stuffs both hands in his pockets and proclaims, "I wasn't touching anything!" Then he mutters, looking at the slab, "That's really cold."

"I'm serious, Paul. What did I say in the car?" you push.

"That we were going to a morgue, like the one you used to work at back home and we don't want a repeat of what happened the last time you took me to work," Paul reiterates quickly. His eyes shift away from yours bashfully.

David eyes you warily. "Uh..., what happened the last time Paul was in a morgue?"

You just smile. "Trust me. You don't want to know." Then you suggest to your brother, "Paul, wait outside for me? This will only take a minute."

"'Kay," he agrees, quickly shuffling out and disappearing into the hallway.

You hop up onto another slab, force your shirt down and off your shoulder, just enough to expose the bruise. You kinda smirk in amusement as David tries to look at your bruised collarbone without really looking at your bruised collarbone. You suspect he's had a little crush on you for years now and he's trying to be as much of a gentleman as possible in this situation.

"Does it hurt?" he asks.

"A little," you reply.

He squints his eyes. "How long have you and Cath been dating?"

You quirk an eyebrow, only momentarily considering denying it. It's Super Dave, though, and you know he's not asking with malicious intent. You sigh, then ask, "Who told you?"

"Hodges," David answers simply. He glances up from your bruise to your face now. "So, how long?"

You shrug, "I guess a day or two now. I wouldn't really call it dating yet. I have yet to take her out."

"Ah," he nods. "Well, good luck."

"Good luck?" you repeat worriedly. "Why are you wishing me good luck?"

"No reason," he says quickly. So quickly, in fact, you have to suspect that there is a reason. He stands straight now, surmises, "I guess the bruise looks. . .normal. What I would expect to see after a gunshot impact. I suspect it'll get worse over the next couple of days, then you'll start to see improvement in skin color and such. Of course, I usually analyze bodies with less pink in their flesh tone."

"I'm sorry, David, but I promised Cath I would see a doctor about this," you say, setting your shirt back in place.

"But I'm not a doctor," David says.

"Close enough," you argue. You hop off the slab and say, "Thanks, David. Really. You've helped me a great deal."

"What? I helped you lie to Cath about seeing a doctor?" he scoffs. "Look, I've been with my lady for a while now and if it's one thing she hates most, it's lying."

You pull your jacket on, smile softly. "You can deny that I was ever here, if you want."

"Sara, that's not my point," he says, exasperated. "I'm saying, don't lie to Cath. It's no fun being in the doghouse. Trust me."

The doghouse. You almost want to tell David you're already there, considering what happened at Termite House. The reason you've put any effort into getting this bruise checked out at all is because you really don't want to be in the doghouse for too much longer.

"I do trust you, Super Dave," you nod, heading for the door. "Thanks again!"

"You're welcome!" he says as you exit the morgue.

Once outside in the corridor, you see Greg sitting next to Paul, which would surprise you except you know Greg has this 'Sara Radar' and he seemingly knows where you are at all times when in the general vicinity of the lab. He waves at you, then returns his attention to the book in Paul's hands.

"Hey, Greggo," you say, walking up. You peer down curiously. "What's that?"

Paul holds it up excitedly. "A cookbook by Emeril! Greg bought it!"

You groan immediately. Paul giggles with delight.

"What? I thought he would like it," Greg shrugs. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. He likes it," you say, motioning for Paul to get up. "Let's go, buddy. Time to go home."

"When we get back, we can make Kick'd Up A Notch Pesto!" Paul exclaims. "I like pesto. And there's a recipe for chocolate cake and linguini and veggie pizza! You'll like veggie pizza, Sara. I know you like veggies. . .I can't wait till we get home, thanks Greg!"

Both you and Greg watch Paul bouncing toward the exit, still babbling to himself and listing the number of delectable dishes you'll both be cooking up today. You glance at Greg and sigh deeply. He finally nods his understanding and says, "Is that why giving him a cookbook was a bad idea?"

"That's why giving him a cookbook was a bad idea," you repeat. You start to walk away, muttering under your breath. "I will _not_ be getting any sleep today."

"Sorry," Greg mumbles, as you walk off.

You barely grunt, waving his apology off.

Paul is sitting on the hood of your car, flipping through the book, his eyes studiously glued to the pages before him. You pause because you don't think you've ever seen Paul concentrate so hard on anything in his life. His attentions are all on that book. If the world were to explode right now, you don't think Paul would notice.

Come to think of it, your brother hasn't shown this kind of appetite (no pun intended) for learning in years. Maybe you'll have to thank Greg later for this unexpected present, for reintroducing the love of acquiring knowledge to Paul. You unlock the doors to your car. "Hop in. Time to go home. I need sleep."

Paul looks up, his eyes saddened. "Sleep? I thought we could cook."

"Paul, I really need sleep. I've had a very long night," you tell him. "You know you could totally ask Lindsey to cook with you later tonight. Or Lily."

Paul makes a face at the mention of Lily. He does accept the suggestion though. "Lily does know a lot about baking."

"See? I know nothing about baking," you smile widely. You both climb into the car. You look at Paul. "Maybe this weekend, hmm? We'll cook something together this weekend."

He shrugs. "Okay."

"Okay," you repeat. This weekend. You can't believe you're actually making plans for a family weekend. If you're honest, you don't think you've ever made plans for a family weekend.

* * *

You'd like to say you've been sleeping better, but old habits die hard. You're still very much the insomniac and just about every subtle noise wakes you easily from slumber, but today is different. It's not a noise that wakes you, no. It's a smell. A rich, sweet smell. It's a somewhat pleasant way to wake up and you actually do feel refreshed, which is something you haven't felt in quite a long time.

You slowly open one eye. Wait. You do hear something. There's another voice in the apartment. It's not Paul. It's not Emeril on television. It's not anyone who would normally be here. You swing your feet over, glance at the clock. You've been asleep for five hours. Something smells like chocolate.

You yawn, pad your way out into the hallway and follow the aroma. The closer you get, the louder the voice becomes. The voice is humming a song. You stand in the threshold of your kitchen, the sight before you highly amusing. There's a man in your kitchen, humming and wearing an apron.

"Nick? Why the hell are you in my kitchen?"

The humming stops, but he's not at all surprised by your sudden presence. He's wiping down a counter, wearing an apron he must've brought with him because you don't own any. You almost laugh because Nick is so domestic, it's almost _not_ funny. You wonder who taught him how to operate in a kitchen. You wonder why he thought wearing a bright blue and green apron was appropriate.

"Paul let me in," he says plainly, as if it's normal for him to be here.

"That wasn't the answer to my question," you tell him, go for the fridge and search for some milk.

When you can't find it, you turn to your left and see Nick standing there holding the gallon jug. He smiles, "We needed it for the cake."

You quirk an eyebrow before almost snatching the milk from his hands and going to search for a glass. He continues, "We really needed sour milk, but Paul was insistent that we improvise."

You look around, ignoring Nick's rambling about cake, one very important person missing from this whole shebang. "Where is Paul?"

"Bathroom," Nick answers. "We, uh, spilled some flour. He wanted to take a shower." Nick snickers to himself when he jokes, "Flour, shower. That rhymed."

"Yeah, you're a regular ol' Robert Frost," you rib, pouring milk into a small glass. You do notice a nice white sheet of dust on your counters, but you know Nick will clean it up. Or he'll make Paul clean it up. You sit down and run a hand through your hair, sip on the milk in your glass.

"Anyway, I actually came over because of what I heard," Nick confesses. "And I thought since Paul isn't around and you're awake, we could talk about it mono y mono."

"Mono y mono?" you ask.

"One on one, whatever. You know what I mean," Nick rolls his eyes. He sits down and says, "Let's talk, Sara, because it seems the last time we had a conversation like this, you didn't learn a damn thing."

"Oh, I get it. This about me chasing that guy? I love you Nick, but I really don't want to talk about it again. Jim yelled, Catherine yelled and when I talked to Lisa. . .Lisa already threatened my life too so I don't need you telling me the same thing I've heard a million times today," you argue.

Nick frowns. "Lisa? Who's Lisa?"

You can tell this mention of Lisa has completely derailed Nick from scolding you about Termite House, which you're extremely happy about. However, his question sounds less curious and more all-knowing. As if he _knows_ exactly who Lisa is, but he only inquires of her because he wants you to confirm his suspicions. Why would mentioning her do that to him? Not only have you questioned Lisa's closeness with Grissom and with Catherine, Nick has suddenly given you new reason to suspect her closeness with Nick.

"My psychiatrist. . ._Paul's _psychiatrist, not mine," you correct yourself immediately.

"Wait a minute. Dr. Lisa Wiseman?" Nick asks. "That's who Paul is seeing?"

"Yeah," you answer. "You know her?"

"Well, a lot of us know _of_ her," Nick replies shakily, which only makes you believe he has met her in person before. Maybe at the very least, they are acquaintances. "She's a department shrink. Her name gets around."

"Well, I didn't know anything about her until Grissom recommended her to me," you counter. You're not sure why you sound so defensive. "She can't be that great or all-important if I've gone five years without hearing her name once."

"Grissom set you up?" Nick asks, then shakes his head in disbelief. "Wow."

"What aren't you telling me?" you ask, both frustrated and intrigued. "Something about Lisa has you acting all weird."

"Weird? Look. I wasn't trying to make you all leery of her," Nick laughs nervously, his voice rising a bit. "I just recognized the name."

"And her name made your skin pale. Your voice just rose about half an octave and you keep rubbing your palms on your jeans," you point out. You lean forward, begging for answers, "What do you know about Lisa that I don't know?"

Finally Nick sighs, but he only gives in a little. "Look, all I can say is, there's a very good reason Lisa threatened your life, okay? That's all I can say on that."

You nod your head, then say,"That tells me nothing."

"Which is a good thing because Lisa would _kill _me if she found I might've told one of her secrets to one of her patients," Nick smiles, then rises from his chair. "Glad we had this chat, Sara."

"Glad we had this chat? What chat, Nick? First off, I'm not her patient, Paul is and secondly, all you did was make me even more anxious about my. . .I mean, _Paul's_ psychiatrist. And I have to admit how wary I am that she seems to not only know my boss and my girlfriend, but she knows you as well. Is there anyone else I should know about? Any other mutual acquaintances?"

Nick squints his eyes, thinking. "She helped Warrick through his gambling thing?"

You cover your face with your hands. "If Paul didn't like her so much. . ."

"Sara, Sara, don't worry about it, okay? Lisa is great at what she does and she would never do anything to compromise the work she's doing with Paul. She just wants to help, that I know for sure, okay?"

Nick rests his hand on your shoulder, gives it a slight squeeze. His smile is soft, his eyes even softer and he's wearing that expression that says, 'why would I lie to you about this?' If Nick Stokes claims that Lisa Wiseman is great at her job and will do everything to help Paul, why wouldn't you believe it?

"I believe you, Nick, I do," you tell him, patting his hand in return.

He leans over, kisses your forehead. "Good. I don't need you making some rash decision because you think Lisa doesn't have Paul's best interests in mind. Give her a chance."

"Okay," you say, watching him return to the counter, continuing to clean up the mess that was made.

You want to tell Nick that you have the utmost faith in Lisa's abilities. That doesn't concern you. What concerns you most is that Lisa has some sort of strong connection to Catherine, one you can't figure out and suffice to say, you still don't completely rule out that Lisa is a former lover of Catherine's.

You'd hate to think Catherine wouldn't tell you such a thing straight up, especially considering both Catherine and Grissom thought Lisa was a perfect candidate for Paul. You'd hate to think that she lied to you, but somehow, you can't help but think it.

Super Dave was right. Lying doesn't belong in a relationship and now that you feel you're on the receiving end, it hurts. It hurts to think that Catherine lied to you about Lisa. It hurts to think that Lisa is in cahoots with Catherine, helping to keep the lie alive. They both don't want you to know whatever the hell it is they don't want you to know. . .and apparently, Nick won't tell you either.

You lean back in your chair, just as Paul walks back in. You smile at him. "Hey, buddy."

"We have cake," Paul beams. "Nick stopped by to help."

"So he told me," you say.

What really concerns you most, however, is what he isn't telling you about Dr. Lisa Wiseman.

to be continued. . .


	17. Scare

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Notes: I was bad this week. I'm not sure I replied to any review on an individual basis, but RL has been hampering my internet activity. Every single review has been amazing (and they continue to be amazing), so thank you so much! Hope you enjoy what I have next because I'm not so sure I like it at all.

**Chapter Seventeen**

**Scare**

It's been a lax couple of days, thank goodness.

You've had enough excitement in these past several weeks to last eons. Paul showing up, crashing through a floor, suffering from pneumonia, falling for Catherine. . ..

The break from the insanity is most welcome.

Not to say falling for Catherine is insane. Oh, who are you kidding? It's quite insane, but in a good way. Definitely good. It's really the only insane thing to have happened in your _entire life_ that wasn't a total disaster. And since you're on the subject of things 'not ending in disaster'. . .

The Termite House case is finally seeing some progress. Grissom, who was skeptical of the astounding numbers of termites in the house from the very start, now suspects the little critters were introduced on purpose. Someone wanted the house to fall apart quite literally. Again, you suspect Jonas. He wanted his mother to sell the house and maybe the termites were meant to be an incentive.

Moreover, Jonas' car revealed a garden hose stashed in the truck. Finally, an answer to the excessive water damage in the house. If Jonas shot his mother, he might've wanted to wash away the blood and maybe he wanted to drown out the termites as well. Of course, drowning the little suckers is difficult, but Jonas wouldn't know that.

Now that you have some reasonable explanations for the termites and the water, what remains is a confession from Jonas. Unfortunately, the man is still quite weak from his gunshot wounds and in critical condition. Talking to him proves to be nearly impossible seeing how he can't stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time. Lastly, your mystery suspect is still missing.

On the home front, things have slowed with Catherine. Mostly because you've taken Lisa's advice and held off on telling Paul about the relationship. Partly because you're still leery about Lisa's connection to Catherine. You've tried bringing Lisa up in conversation, but you find it difficult to say anything because you're afraid of what you might hear.

"Sara?"

"Hmm?" you hum against her skin.

She shifts in your arms, eyes finding yours. "You alright?"

Here's your golden opportunity, you know this. She's asked and you can answer, but you know you won't say anything. You don't know how or if you should. You've mastered faking smiles in the past and this time, it works like a charm. "I'm great, Cath. Really. I'm fine."

"Okay," she whispers.

Well, you're a little less than great, if you're honest. As you said before, you have yet to tell Paul about Catherine and that's proved to be quite . . .cumbersome. Unfortunately, when you are home, Paul is around all the time. It leaves little time to just be with Catherine. Even cuddling on the couch would raise red flags in Paul's mind and then you would have to explain yourself.

You wish you knew how you're going to tell Paul. Whether he learns now or later, you have a strong feeling he won't like the news either way.

Despite this little conundrum, you have found one small chunk of time in which Catherine can be all yours. That time is right now.

Paul takes a morning shower at Catherine's now, giving you about twenty minutes to have your wicked way with her. Well, let's be modest. It's not nearly as wicked as you would like, seeing how the house is a bustle with activity in the morning. Absolutely no chance for privacy.

Before he takes a shower, Paul is up, begging for breakfast or whining about Emeril on television. At the present moment, Lindsey doesn't leave for school for another half hour. Plus there's Lily, marching about in the morning for no good reason. You think maybe Catherine mentioned to Lily that you were now 'the girlfriend' because Lily never used to show up so early. Now she claims it's to give Catherine a break from making breakfast for Paul all the time. You know that's a lie.

Anyway, for about twenty minutes, you and Catherine steal some time in her room (with the door shut) and make out like teenagers on prom night. Yeah. Like teenagers who are hiding from their parents (in this case, Lily) and any other prying eyes (like Lindsey or Paul) so you can steal a few blissful moments alone together. Let's keep in mind, due to both time constraints and the potential noise that could arise, you are doomed to only ever reach second base.

Is it juvenile? Yes. You just don't have another choice right now. Catherine won't see it your way, however.

"We have to tell him sometime," Catherine drawls, as you nip at her neck.

"I know," you say against her skin. "Just. . not now."

Catherine pushes you off her, a sign that there will be no more groping or kissing until you agree to whatever she demands. "I told Lindsey. And my Mom."

"And yet we still hide from them," you point out.

"Which is mostly _your_ idea. Look. All I'm saying is, we wouldn't have to be so secretive about it if Paul knew," she argues.

"Look, I was advised strongly to give him a little time before I said anything," you say. "I've told you this."

"I know, I know, but I am completely and utterly frustrated," she says, pouting a little. "I don't think I have to tell you in which sense either."

You pretend to ponder her statement of frustration, then say cheekily, "Um, sexually?"

She hits you lightly on the shoulder and warns, "Don't be a smartass. I'll end this relationship. Kick you to the curb."

"Hey, it was a joke, I'm sorry. I'm right there with you," you say, venturing back over to her side of the bed. She reluctantly lets you wrap an arm around her waist, then she rests her head in the crook of your neck.

Frustrated.

Okay. So, you haven't exactly been pondering too arduously over the 'first date' and you could try a bit harder to find ways to spend some time with Catherine. You know that and she knows that.

There's just always Paul to think about. If you go out, who will watch him? You gonna make Lindsey play babysitter every time you take her Mom out to dinner? Will you lie to Paul about what you and Catherine are doing and make Lindsey lie about it too? Do you want to lie?

You really don't want to think about it now. You want to ignore the important questions, try to distract anyone who suspects you're ignoring the important questions. When distraction doesn't work, deny that you're ignoring the important questions and walk away. No, it's not very effective, you realize this. There's just no other way you know how to operate.

"So. How long?"

"Hmm?" you say, returning your focus to Catherine's face.

"You heard me. How long are we going to lie about this to him?" Catherine repeats. She sits up a little, out of your grasp.

You look away. Is this the appropriate time to ignore the important questions? You find you can't evade Catherine's inquiry, not this time. You don't want to lie to Paul, but you most definitely don't want to lie to her.

"I'm not sure, Catherine. This is a delicate situation."

"You really think he'll freak out?" Catherine asks.

"Yeah, I do. It's like you said. Paul already likes you."

It seems to finally dawn on Catherine what has been worrying you for weeks. Paul _really_ likes her and now she understands the true gravity of that statement. Sure, on some levels it's awesome that Paul already likes Catherine. You don't have to introduce her as some brand new person, a person Paul would immediately distrust. He knows her. On the other hand, he knows Catherine so well, that it might be detrimental to the bond between all of you.

Paul is manipulative when he wants to be. Brooding and childlike when he wants Catherine to make him food. Temperamental and moody when Lindsey changes the station away from the cooking channel on television. Whiny and irritating when he has a disagreement with you.

In each instance, you all cave to Paul, whether you realize it or not and he totally takes advantage of that. If you tell him that Catherine is your girlfriend, he'll not only be whiny and irritating (assuming he disagrees with you), he'll also be brooding and childlike, hoping he can sway Catherine to his side. He'll start competing with you for her attention. Frankly, you don't think you can deal with that. You don't know how Catherine will handle that either.

"In what way do you think Paul likes me?" Catherine asks, the question quite unexpected.

Um. Wow. Did you just hear crickets chirp? You swallow hard, thinking. "Like a mother."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," you say, absolutely zero confidence in your voice. Begrudgingly, you admit, "Actually, I'm not sure."

Catherine lies flat again, letting you hold her once more. She finally agrees, "We'll wait a week. I guess. Wait and see what Lisa says."

"Thanks," you whisper against her hair, pull her closer.

You both lay there for several minutes, sleep threatening to claim you both. You can't fall asleep like this, not when Paul could just walk in and see you. You whisper, "Hey, he's probably dressed. We better get downstairs."

"Just leave me here," Catherine yawns. "I can't move anyway."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," she nods.

"Okay," you say, kissing her on the forehead

You go to get up, but can't move. You grab her hand, forcing her eyes open. You smile softly and say, "I have some personal days I could take. I bet you do too. We could plan a weekend or something."

Catherine grins, sitting up a little again. "So? We're actually going on this first date I've heard so much about?"

You smirk. "You've heard? Heard what?"

"Oh, stuff from Greg. Something about a rodeo," Catherine says, then yawns again.

"Oh, don't listen to Greg, Cath. C'mon. I wouldn't take you to a rodeo," you say.

Catherine quirks an eyebrow at you. "Who says I wouldn't like a rodeo?"

Your heart skips a beat and you can't help but hear Nick's words reverberate in your head: _". . .turned out that whole thing turned her on. Let's just say, we did a little role play later that night. . ." _

Role play. Suddenly, the rodeo doesn't seem so bad. . .

"I didn't say that you wouldn't like it. I'm saying I wouldn't take you there," you clarify.

You rise from the bed and promise, "We can talk about it tonight, okay? We'll plan something. . .make Lily take Lindsey and Paul to a zoo or something one afternoon. A movie the next night. We'll send everyone away and we'll have the whole house to ourselves."

Catherine sighs, content. "I'd like that."

You bring the sheets up to Catherine's shoulders, before you say goodbye again.

Thoughts of using that vacation time sound absolutely perfect. Have a few days, maybe see if you can find a rodeo in the area, something that won't require you drive all the way to Texas for. . .

You quietly leave the room, shut the door, turn around and nearly scream from fright when you bump into an unsuspecting body. That body is Lily and she does yelp in surprise.

"Jesus, Sara!" Lily gasps, clutching her chest. The bathroom is directly across from Catherine's room. Lily must've stepped out into the hallway the same time you did. "You can't go sneaking around like that. . .scaring me."

"Me? Sneaking?" you repeat, incredulously. You're almost certain Lily was the one snooping or trying to eavesdrop.

"So, Catherine in there?" Lily asks. You know why she's asking.

"She's asleep," you answer, pushing past her toward the stairs.

"Asleep?" Lily asks, following you.

That was the wrong answer to give, Sidle. Wrong. You groan aloud, then clarify, "She's tired from _work_. Tired. So now she's asleep. Is Paul downstairs?"

"Yes," Lily replies. "How was work, by the way? Catherine doesn't talk much about her job anymore."

"Because the job is gruesome and depressing," you interrupt her, reaching the bottom of the stairs. You turn to look at Lily while she still descends the steps and ask, "Are you fishing for something?"

"I do nothing of the sort, Sara. You seem to be my daughter's favorite person lately and I'm just going straight to the source. I'm wondering how she is," Lily says matter-of-factly. "Since you spend so much time with her, you seemed like the best person to ask."

Bullshit. You try to smile and say, "I'm gonna find Paul."

"I'm right here," your brother says from the couch.

"Great. Let's go," you tell him. You even clap your hands in the form of a 'chop-chop' gesture, hoping he understands that means to hurry up. Not soon enough, you both climb into your car and say goodbye to the Willows family until tonight.

After a few minutes, Paul asks, "Why is Lily upset with you?"

You grip the steering wheel tighter, wondering why the drive home seems longer today. You glance at Paul, then opt for indifference. "Uh, I don't know, Paul. She's just. . .Lily."

"I dunno. She just seems to watch you a lot," Paul says. "I don't like it when she does that. Her eyes are mean."

"Wait? She does that all the time?" you ask. "She glares at me when I'm not looking?"

"Sometimes."

You grow silent again. There are some days Lily is tolerable, nice even.

There are some days you see Catherine with Lily and you know the bond between them could never be shattered. They've been through a lot, both together and apart. You understand that Lily cherishes every moment with Catherine and in turn, she's also reasserted her motherly duties. She's very protective of Catherine and you have a feeling that even if Lily likes you deep down, she would still disapprove of your relationship. You wish there was a way to make her see you are a good person, that Paul is a decent guy too.

"So, what did you do to Lily?" Paul asks again. Damn, he's curious today.

"Really, it's nothing, Paul," you insist.

"Well, I'll ask her if you won't tell," Paul threatens.

Okay. Now you've got a problem. If Paul talks to Lily, you know Lily will blab everything. If Lily tells him, Paul will be angry_ you_ didn't tell him. On the other hand, if you tell Paul now, he'll still be upset.

You pull into the parking lot of your apartment complex. You cut the ignition and decide that Paul should hear it from you.

"Uh, Paul. I should tell you something," you say timidly.

"What is it?" Paul asks. He furrows his brow, concerned.

You say immediately, "It's nothing bad, buddy. Actually, it makes me very happy and since it makes me happy, it makes Lily. . .unhappy."

Paul perks up a bit. "So, tell me already! What's made you happy?"

You feel time slow. This can go one of two ways. One, Paul is happy for you and gives you a big hug. Two, Paul will be mad at you and lock himself in your bedroom all day. You're betting money on two.

"Well, Catherine and I. . .we've started. .. .," you begin, unable to keep from grinning a bit. You look at Paul. "What I'm trying to say is, I told Catherine...rather _she told me _that she wanted to be more than friends. You understand, Paul?"

Paul's expression falls. That's most likely _not_ a good sign. "You mean. . .she's your girlfriend?"

Your smile widens, an action not of your own accord. You confirm, "Yeah, she's my girlfriend."

He looks out the window, avoiding your eyes now. Another bad sign. He opens the door and says over his shoulder, "Well, that's good. I guess."

"You guess?" you repeat. You exit the car, follow him up the steps to your building. "Paul, hey. Paul, wait up."

He stops at the main entrance, clutching his duffle bag. He says, his words short. "Yeah. What?"

"Nothing's going to change, okay?" you say, reassuringly. "Catherine and Lindsey will be like family now, you know? A real family. We've never had that."

"Sure, whatever," Paul says, shrugging. He's still not happy with the news (you can tell), but he won't elaborate or give you anything tangible to work with. He won't give you a clue as to what he's really thinking. He announces, "I wanna watch Emeril now."

You and Paul are alike in so many ways. You like to avoid the important questions, he likes to avoid the important conversations.

"Paul. . ." you say again.

"I don't care, Sara," he finally says, his voice louder. "I know Catherine likes you."

You almost sense a hint of jealously in Paul's words and that is worrisome. You always had a feeling that Paul was too attached to Catherine. He might think you're taking her away from him.

"Paul, please," you beg. "I need you to understand, to be happy for me."

His lips press together tightly. He hugs his duffle bag to his chest. His eyes narrow at you and he closes the distance between you. He then lies to your face, "I'm happy for you. And for Catherine."

You know he's lying. He's not happy and you don't know if he ever will be. You shake your head. "Don't lie, Paul. Tell me why you're upset. . ."

"Catherine loved me!" he says, voice rising and wavering. You step back a little at the outburst, both in surprise and in confusion. He said 'loved'. Past tense. He grabs a bit at his scraggly hair and tries to elaborate, "She cooks for me and hugs me and I can see her every morning, just like I see Emeril on TV. She listens to me. . .she loved me."

"Paul, she won't stop loving you," you reassure. He turns away, to go inside and you grab his arm. "You repeat, "Paul. She won't stop loving you. In fact, I've told her that she babies you too much and she blatantly ignores me and does it anyway. You get it? Catherine loves you."

"No," Paul says softly. He shrugs away from you and opens the door to the building. He says over his shoulder, "She loves you."

He disappears inside before you can say anything else.

You stand on the steps, alone.

You were hoping beyond hope that Paul would learn to accept your new relationship with Catherine because you certainly don't need his approval to be with her. You would've liked his attitude to be better, sure, but you don't need his approval. . .even if you want it.

On the up side, he didn't freak out and threaten to bash Catherine's head in with a baseball bat. See? Paul is maturing. He is. He's trying.

* * *

Catherine pulls up to Termite House. She cuts the engine and then looks at you, her expression all-knowing. "I told you. Cursed."

That man you chased a few nights ago? Well, he was found dead. Inside the house. You can only assume when the search ended, he crawled his way back to the house, collapsed in the foyer and stayed there. Nick and Warrick are already here. You'll be meeting them inside.

As you climb out of the Tahoe, you say for the umpteenth time, "This house is not cursed."

"Look at the facts: The owner is dead. Her son might as well be in a coma. The man who tried to killed her son? Now he's dead. In the house."

Okay, you can't deny that's all a bit strange, but you won't believe the house is cursed. You don't believe in that kind of mumbo jumbo. Although, according to Lisa, you have the tendency to 'chase down fate' when it takes all manner of control out of your hands. So maybe you believe other worldly phenomenon exists on some level.

You both walk up to the house, see Nick waiting on the porch. He smiles. "Hey, ladies."

"So? Have we got an I.D. yet?" Catherine asks.

"Mark Grimes," Nick nods. "At least, that's the name in his wallet. I had gone through the evidence from Jonas' apartment and remembered the photographs ya'll found on the coffee table. Mark is in the pictures with Jonas."

Nick leads you inside to David, who is kneeled over the body of Mark Grimes. You look at the man's face, then notice the blood stains soaking the side of his body. That must be where you shot him. You find yourself mesmerized by the sight and only a gentle shake from Catherine brings you out of it.

"I didn't find a bullet, through and through," David announces, handing the wallet to you. You're happy for the distraction, proceeding to go through the contents as he continues, "He would've survived, with help. He tried wrapping it up with an old shirt, but he eventually bled out."

Mark bled out; bled out from a gunshot wound that you gave him.

"Yeah, turns out, while everyone was searching out in the fields for him, he came back to the house," Nick explains, his tone one of wonderment. "We found a trail of blood leading to the cellar doors outside. He must've hid down there, resurfaced when we all left."

"I'm kinda surprised he was able to give ten cops the slip out there," Catherine muses aloud. "He made it back to this house without being seen. He knew about the cellar doors, had access to the house. He knew this terrain well and he knew where to hide."

"Are you suggesting that maybe Mark used to live here with Jonas and his mother?" Nick says.

"Maybe," Catherine nods. "Might explain his closeness with Jonas in those photographs."

"He was distraught," you say absently, finding nothing interesting in the wallet. You look up to find three curious faces waiting on you to elaborate. You sigh, not thrilled to be recounting the events, but continue on anyway. "When I was in that standoff with Mark, he seemed distraught over shooting Jonas. I'd say they were pretty close. Maybe had an argument that got out of hand."

"Well, this is what you really need to close this case," David says, holding up a bagged firearm. "It was on his person when we found him. I assume it's the gun that shot Jonas and killed his mother."

"Well, you know what they say about the word assume, Super Dave," Nick interjects. "We'll wait and see what Bobby has to say first."

"Right," David agrees.

You take the gun now.

If this matches the bullet found in the wall upstairs, this is your murder weapon. If that bullet also matches the one pulled from your vest, that would prove that the murderer of Jonas' mother is at your feet. The man you stupidly chased after is at your feet. The one who fired his weapon at you; you fired your weapon at him. He didn't make it, but you did. You survived, all because you wore a stupid, bulky vest.

"Sara?"

"We should get this back to the lab then," you say, snapping out of it and handing over the gun to Catherine. Thankfully, she takes it. You don't wish to hold it any longer.

Some dust unexpectedly falls from above and a muffled "Sorry!" travels from upstairs. It's Warrick. Nick explains, "He went upstairs to make sure we didn't miss anything."

You nod. It's quite obvious since your unexpected tumble, no one has been brave enough to venture back upstairs and search the rest of the house except for Warrick. You know he was up there previously to collect the bullet you saw in the wall. He must be the only one fearless enough to walk up there. You hope that he's careful.

A quick glance up and you see a big gaping hole in the ceiling; the one you made the first time you were here. Memories of your fall flood back into your mind, it's inevitable. You look at Catherine, nearly beg, "Let's go."

"Okay," Catherine nods, understanding your urgency to leave. Her cell phone rings, though, and she has to answer it. "Hello? What's up Lindsey?" She pauses, you watch her face fall into worry. Something is wrong. "Okay, Lindsey, we'll be home soon."

She hangs up the phone and says four words you'd hate to admit you were expecting.

"Lindsey can't find Paul."

* * *

You forget how capable Paul is sometimes. He found you. He came to Vegas, searched for you and found you. That required him to catch a bus (probably had to switch buses at some point), to find Child Services. He even remembered that you worked for the police. That was no small feat for someone like Paul. Despite his anxious nature, he is smart, he is capable. That's why you know it'll be like hell trying to find him in a city like Las Vegas.

"I'm sorry, Sara. I only left him alone for a few minutes. I thought he was just going to watch TV, like he always does," Lindsey says. You think she might be on the verge of tears.

"Hey, it's not your fault, kiddo," you tell her. You briefly wrap an arm around her shoulders, hug her. "I'm just glad you called. We'll find him, or he'll find me. Unfortunately, he's run away before."

But never after just learning of recent developments in your personal life, you think to yourself.

The first time Paul ran away, you were in college. It took weeks to find him and when you did, smelling like trash and chatting it up with a local homeless man named Jim, you were pissed. More than pissed. Enraged. Now Paul is gone again, but this time, you're not angry. You're worried. This time, you've got a few years of investigating under your belt. You've got Catherine and an entire night crew of friends who will help look for him, if need be. You'll find him.

You look around the house now. Paul left something here, a clue as to where he might've gone. There's always a clue.

"Did you guys talk, Linds?" Catherine asks her daughter. "You remember anything he might've said that seemed weird?"

"No," the young woman shakes her head. "We were watching a cooking show. He was kinda quiet today, but sometimes he is. I didn't think it was weird or anything."

"So, you guys were just on the couch?" you ask, walking over. The TV is still running.

Lindsey nods. "Yeah. That's it. He sat there when you guys left for work and never moved."

You look around, but don't see anything out of the ordinary. Then you glance at the television. It's a commercial for a local gym, similar to a YMCA. You absently watch, trying ever so desperately to figure out where Paul might've gone. Only when the female voice over mentions, '. . .escape to a brand new way of living. ..', do you tune in. _Escape. _

"How often does this commercial play?" you ask Lindsey.

"A lot, why?"

"It Paul watches this channel all the time, he sees this commercial all the time," you say. "Cath, I'm going to try this gym. If he's not there, then we'll call the police."

"Okay, Sara," Catherine agrees. She embraces you tightly and says, "I'm sure he's alright."

_He has attachment issues, Sara. He fears abandonment most right now. . . Paul likes the people that are in his life now and I have a feeling he'll do whatever it takes to keep them."_

You hold onto Catherine, hoping that Lisa got her diagnosis completely wrong.

to be continued. . .


	18. Drowning

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Notes: If I read this over anymore, I'll keep changing something and I probably should just leave it the hell alone. So, I'm posting. Warning: There will be foul language, cursing and the like. I also think I'm quite close to wrapping this up, another fair warning. I know some people (myself included) like a bit of a warning when a story is about to near completion. I can't quite put an accurate guess on it, but about two or three more chapters ahead for this one. Of course, that's according to my ever changing outline.

Again, a huge thanks for the reviews, comments, personal messages. Love ya'll to pieces!

**Chapter Eighteen**

**Drowning**

Of course the gym is closed. It's the middle of the night, so of course it's closed, but you can't drive away yet. Your gut is begging that you at least look around. This is simply a hunch you can't ignore.

Paul must be here. He has to be here because if he's not, that means he's really missing. If he's really missing, that means he could be in more danger than you previously conceived. If he's really missing, that would mean you drove him away again and you don't think you could live with that.

He has to be here.

You walk up to the doors, try them and confirm they are locked. You breathe in deep (mostly to calm your nerves), but smell something unusual. What is that?

You follow the scent and it gets stronger. Wait, you know what that is! Chlorine! This gym has an outdoor pool.

You continue on, letting the chlorine guide you. You round the corner of the building and spot two pools, side by side. The outdoor lights are still on, illuminating the water. The sudden brightness bounces off the water, nearly blinding you.

You scan the area, don't see anyone and sigh inwardly. Maybe Paul isn't here, you were just being too hopeful. Maybe. . .you just need to let your eyes adjust to the lights. Maybe.

Another last ditch attempt at scanning the pool area and you see him. Holy hell, you see him!

Unfortunately, there's a metal fence surrounding the pools, blocking access. A barrier between you and your brother. You run up and grab onto the links. You shout out, "Paul?"

He doesn't turn around, but you do see him visibly jump at the sound of his name.

You found Paul. Thank goodness, you found Paul.

Thinking you would find him here was a long shot, but what matters is that you were right. He's here and it's time to talk.

The chlorine in the pool water is burning your nostrils and for the first time you notice how dangerously close to the edge Paul is standing. Paul can't swim.

"Paul, hold on," you say anxiously. You've got to get around this fence. The closest entryway is chained shut. How did your brother get inside? Maybe the same way you're gonna have to. You grab onto the links again and being to hoist yourself up. You get to the top and throw yourself over. You land on your backside, ow. Damn it, that hurt.

Your groan does make Paul look at you, but once he sees you are able to stand under your own power, he resumes his staring out into the water.

"No one is swimming," he says blandly. You notice he doesn't ask how you found him. He doesn't turn around, but he obviously knows you're here now. He's looking out at the water. You notice him rocking on his toes. His movements frighten you. His voice unnerves you.

"_This person fears abandonment and will go to any length to prevent this, including threats of suicide and self-harm. Now Sara, don't be alarmed. . ." _

Don't be alarmed. Right, Lisa. Don't be alarmed.

"Pool isn't open, Paul," you tell him. "Step back a little. Talk to me."

"No!" he shouts, his voice echoing into the night. He puts his hands on his ears and shakes his head. He crouches down now, hovering unsafely over the water below his feet. He repeats, "No, I just want to be alone."

"Isn't that the point, buddy?" you say, voice wavering in fear now. "It's not that you want to be alone. It's that you _don't_ want to be alone. You don't want me to leave you, isn't that right?"

"You've left before," he reminds you coldly, glancing at you over his shoulder for the first time. His eyes are narrowed, his nose red from obvious crying. He turns his back to you again and says again, "You've left before."

"And I'm sorry, Paul. I should've never done that," you tell him sincerely. You feel moisture on your face and realize you've begun to cry yourself. You don't know when that started, but one by one tears roll down your cheeks. You wipe at them futilely and urge, "Please, Paul. You can't swim. I don't want you to fall in, alright?"

He stands suddenly and yells, "It's always what you want!" He waves an arm in your direction and in doing so, throws himself off balance. You watch in horror as your baby brother splashes into the pool. Paul can't swim.

"Paul!" you cry out, wasting no time dashing forward and diving in after him.

He didn't mean to do that. You used to always tell yourself that. Paul never means to do anything that he does. He doesn't want to hurt himself. He never meant to hurt you. When you left him at that mental hospital in Tamales Bay and he tackled you to the ground, choking you? He didn't mean to do that. You've always told yourself that and you believed it.

You still believe that. You know Paul. He's your brother. He's not violent. He's just unstable. He needs you. He's not crazy.

You swim, your mind guessing and estimating. The deep end of the pool is 10 feet, maybe? No. Nine feet? How much air did you breathe in? With adrenaline coursing through you, you doubt you can stay under here very long. You don't have a lot of time.

You see him thrashing and you grab onto him. He's panicking and he won't allow you to hold on. The fact that Paul is a grown man is all the more apparent now. He's bigger than you remember, stronger too. He's struggling against you and he breaks away from you. Did he just push you away? Why did he do that? Why did he push you away? He knows he can't swim.

You watch helplessly as he sinks and your lungs burn. You need air. You have to go up and come back down for him. You have no choice.

So you go up and break the surface. Your lips are sputtering and your tears mix with the pool water and you breathe in raggedly. Then you go back under.

You desperately search around, but you can't find him! Where the hell did he go?? Then you see kicking legs. Wait. . .Paul can't swim, but the legs keep kicking and they keep rising. You follow them, break the surface of the water again and see Paul's head bobbing up and down. His eyes are open, his mouth turned up into an baneful grin and he's floating without the aid of a life preserver.

That son of a . . .

"You _fucking_ asshole!" you shout at him, childishly splashing water at him. He actually starts laughing at you which only angers you more. You continue to splash more water and he continues to laugh! You don't believe this!

Now the tears roll down your face not out of fear, but out of anger. You swim up to him and push him back under the water. You would hold him under there, but that might constitute as attempted murder. You let him go and he pops back up like a buoy, only proving that Paul can swim. He can fucking swim.

"You scared the piss out of me!" you shout.

"Sorry!" he says, spitting water out of his mouth. "I thought I told you I could swim now. They taught me at the home."

"Oh, don't pull that whole 'innocent kid brother' shit on me!" you yell at him, splashing more water at him. This time, he does shove water back at you. "You never told me you learned to swim and you knew that I would dive in after you. You knew that, you fucking jackass!"

"I didn't mean to fall in, Sara," he says, rolling his eyes. "I got mad and fell over, that's all."

"That's all??" you repeat angrily. You sniffle loudly. "Well, maybe it's that simple for you, but you fucking scared me. Do you get that? Fuck this. . ."

You start swimming away from him, you need to get out of here. You can't remember the last time you dropped the f-bomb that many times. You're so angry, you can't even see where you're trying to swim to. You can't find the edge of the pool.

Paul grabs onto your arm, which is unexpected. He holds you back. You look at him and he's still smiling at you. You think the sensation of being in the water is making him all giddy. He's not trying to laugh at you, but it sure as hell feels like it.

"Let me go," you mutter at him.

He finally looks a bit sympathetic when he says, "I don't care about you and Catherine. I'm sorry."

You breathe in deep, cough up some excess water. You repeat, "You don't care?"

Paul relents, as he lets go of your arm. "Okay. I care a little."

"Just a little?" you push.

"Okay! I care a lot!" he exclaims. "I care a lot, but I didn't know what to do, so I wanted to get out of the house. I wanted to take a walk and Lisa told me I could take walks when I'm frustrated and. . .How did you know I was here?"

"Infomercial on the cooking channel," you tell him. "Mostly a wild guess."

"Oh," he says.

You take another deep breath, watch Paul floating before you. Lisa told him he could take walks. Great, thanks Lisa. Next time, tell him to take a walk _around the block, _not to a gym that's halfway across the city. She needs to learn to be more specific when it comes to Paul.

"How did you get in here?" you ask, simple questions seeming the best course of action right now.

"I climbed over that fence like you did. 'Cept I didn't fall on my ass," he says, smirking at you.

"Shut up," you say, involuntarily breaking out into a smile. "You suck."

Paul's grin widens. "You suck more."

Damn Paul and that stupid grin of his. You can't stop smiling at him.

You shut your eyes, thinking, 'what a night'. Only minutes ago, you were both splashing about and yelling. Well, you were yelling, Paul was laughing. Now you're both floating, the quiet of night settling around you. You kinda wish Catherine was here because at least she would say, 'you can get out of the God damned pool now', but you'd rather just float and you think Paul likes the floating too.

"Remember when Dad got us a pool?" Paul asks.

Again, your eyes sting with tears. You hate remembering Dad. Your voice is throaty when you reply, "Yeah, I do."

"He was nice that day," Paul recalls.

You almost snort in amusement. "Right, nice. Until you cried about not wanting to get in and he pushed you in. If it weren't for me, you would've drowned."

Silence falls over you two again, before Paul asks,"You think we can convince Catherine to get us a pool?"

"Maybe," you smile. Then you turn your head to look at him, somewhat confused. "And what do you mean by 'us'?"

"Well, we're moving in with her right?" Paul asks. "Like, for forever?"

Your eyes widen. "Why would you assume that?"

"Doesn't that happen when people date? You move in together?" Paul questions innocently. He then adds matter of factly, "And she wouldn't move in with you. Your apartment is too small."

"It's not that simple, Paul."

"Why?"

He's still a boy, you have to remind yourself. Forever curious and asking annoying questions. You look up at the night sky, flounder your response. "It's just not! I don't know why! I haven't even taken her out yet, I don't know if things will work out and if they don't. . .. If Catherine gives me a key, that solidifies a commitment I'm not sure I"m ready for yet."

"She made the first move, didn't she?"

You look at Paul, wide eyed. "What?"

"I read romance novels, you know. The ones Catherine says she doesn't own," Paul smiles cheekily. "You're just like Nikki."

You're afraid to ask, but you do anyway. "Who's Nikki?"

"She was in total denial of her feelings and Roberto was the one who had to be all kissy face and make her see it," Paul recalls. "You're Nikki. Catherine is Roberto."

"Paul, seriously? I'm not some carbon copy of a 2-dimensional trashy romance novel character!" you gripe. Then you add curiously, "You read trashy romance novels?"

"Look, I'm not gonna wait around for you to tell Catherine you wanna move in with her," Paul promises, ignoring your inquiry. "I'll tell her for you. I hate your apartment."

Before you can reply to that, you hear the brief call of a police siren. A bright, focused light is shined in your face. Both of you turn to the source of the light, see the gate around the pool being unlocked and three men stepping inside.

You squint your eyes at the light, make out two uniforms and another man in a polo shirt and shorts. Okay, two uniforms equals cops. Man in polo shirt and shorts? Probably the owner of this gym. It only now dawns on you that this is a public pool and it's after hours. Something tells you that this might be grounds for an arrest.

"Mind telling me what's going on, folks?" one of the policeman asks. "You get thrills skinny dipping in public pools?"

You sputter some, then repeat,"Skin - - Skinny dipping?"

Both you and Paul unconsciously swim away from each, the thought that. . .well, the thought that you and Paul are _together_ just a bit unsettling. You smile nervously and set the record straight. "Paul is my brother. We are not. . ."

"Listen lady. I don't care if he's your brother or if you're his mother, I've seen people involved in some crazy shit around this city and I don't wanna hear about it. Just get out of the pool."

"But. . ., we're not, he's not. . .," you say, ineffectually trying to explain yourself. "We're still fully clothed!"

"Get out of the pool, ma'am," he repeats impatiently.

When you climb out of the water, the officers produce handcuffs. Paul is immediately upset, stepping forward aggressively, "Don't touch my sister or else. . ."

"Paul, not a good time to be all chauvinistic," you warn him, pulling him back. You stand in front of Paul, acting as a shield and protest strongly, "Hey, look. We aren't skinny dippers. We just want to go home. There's no need to arrest us, okay?"

"Maybe you're not skinny dippers, but you sure as hell broke into a locked facility in the middle of the night," the officer states. "That's what we call breaking and entering, sweetie. Now, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. . . "

"Look, I know my rights," you groan, as he whips you around, slapping cuffs on your wrists. You watch as Paul happily allows the cuffs to be locked onto his wrists. You nearly roll your eyes at him. What happened to Chauvinistic Paul? He's not supposed to be enjoying this!

"Look, just grab my ID out of my pocket. I'm on your side. I'm Sara Sidle, a CSI working for the LVPD. Just look. This guy, he's my mentally unstable brother. He's Paul Sidle. Would you please just look?"

"I'm crazy," Paul says, thinking he's helping.

"Not crazy," you correct quickly. "Mentally unstable. He thought he could take a swim now, that's all. Really...this isn't what it looks like."

He's not listening and before long, both you and Paul are in the back of a squad car, still soaking wet from the pool and mistaken as a brother/sister skinny dipping couple. Damn it all to hell, how did you end up here?

Paul shifts in the seat, making the leather squeak. How did you get here? The answer to that question is sitting right next to you. Paul says proudly, "I've never been arrested before."

You frown. "Yes, you have."

"Not as an adult," he clarifies, way too proud of this fact. "Think if I ask, he'll put on the siren?"

You shut your eyes, smack your head against the window and say, "Paul? Shut up."

* * *

The cell door shuts behind you again, the sound both deafening and depressing. You walk over to where Paul is sitting and plop down on the only bench in the cell. He looks at you expectantly, but you remain silent.

You just called Catherine. Needless to say, you'd rather not have _that_ conversation ever again.

There's someone coughing in the corner. A drifter you suspect. A drunk. He hasn't spoken a word to either you or Paul, the alcohol smell coming off of him in waves. You look around at your little four wall prison and struggle to keep yourself from strangling Paul to death. He is the reason you're here after all, but does he care? Not really. He actually asked the officer if he could keep the cuffs on and you had to adamantly insist the officer remove the cuffs. Paul sulked.

"Is she gonna get us?" Paul asks.

You sigh inwardly. "Yeah, Paul. I don't think I have to tell you how pissed off she is."

"I said I was sorry," he reiterates. "It's not so bad. Could be worse."

"Yeah, thanks for that. I feel so much better," you gripe. Your hair is still a bit damp. You hope you don't catch a cold, or worse yet, pneumonia again. That would just be the icing on this fantastic cake, wouldn't it? You lean back against the wall, almost laughing to yourself now. "I mean, how would you feel if your girlfriend said, 'Hey, I'm going to go look for my brother' only to get a call several hours later to announce said girlfriend got arrested for lewd acts and breaking into a public pool?"

Paul sits still for a moment, thinking. He guesses,"I would feel. . .mad?"

"Exactly. Which is how Catherine sounded on the phone," you say. You fold your arms across your chest. "She's royally ticked off."

Loud boots clomp up to the cell, the door unlocks. "Ms. Sidle, Mr. Sidle. You're free to go."

"That was quick," Paul says, standing with you. He leans in conspiratorially and whispers, "Catherine is _good_."

"We got a call from the Undersheriff. You just used your last 'get out of jail free card', he says."

Awesome. Now you're indebted to the Undersheriff.

You lead Paul out of the cell and back into the bullpen. The arresting officer explains that you were never formally charged and you're being released without bail. Since you had no prior arrests to this, there was no need to make a big deal out of it. Paul on the other hand, who did a little time in a juvenile detention center, was given a much more stern talking to. They give you a bus pass and some papers that'll get your car out of the impound lot across town.

When you leave the police station, it's nearly 10 o'clock in the morning.

You are so, so damn tired.

* * *

You pull into Catherine's driveway, she's outside tending to some blossoms in the flowerbed. You climb out of the car, not the least bit surprised that Paul is already hugging Catherine and apologizing profusely for running away. He didn't mean to scare anyone and he'll never run off again. Catherine is forgiving, as always. She kisses his hair and laughs at something he says, before telling him to go inside, take a shower and change into cleaner clothes. She promises chocolate chip cookies later. You can't help but roll your eyes. Paul gets rewards even when he screws up.

You cautiously approach her, trying to offer up a smile and maybe another apology, but fail miserably. No words leave your mouth; you can't even grin.

Catherine tilts her head slightly, before saying, "You know, Eddie at least gave me a month of blissful passion before I had to bail him out of the jail the first time. You and I? We've only been dating for a week. Very impressive."

She's joking with you now. That's a very good sign. Much better than the yelling that transpired earlier on the phone. You manage to smile at her with no trouble now, jesting back. "Well, what can I say? I'm not one to take things slow."

"Liar," she says, pulling you down by the lapels of your jacket, kissing your lips softly. "Although, I do have to say, this new daredevil side of you does turn me on. First, breaking into public pools, skirting the edge of the law. Next you'll be trafficking drugs to outer Mongolia and that's when things will really start to heat up."

You roll your eyes for what has to be the umpteenth time today. "Very funny, Cath. Really. You're a riot."

"Which is why you love me," she states, her hands resting on your shoulders now, those eyes locked onto yours.

"I do love you," you say, without thinking. You say the words so softly, so sincerely, there's no way you could be mistaken. This is no longer a matter of joking or playing around. You meant it and now you have to figure out why you said it.

You don't think you meant to say 'I love you', or rather, you don't think you meant to say it so soon. You've felt it, sure, but you didn't think you were ready to say it. You thought your feelings were still in their 'lust' phase. When did 'lust' turn to 'love' without you knowing it?

"Wow, you weren't kidding about not taking things slow," Catherine remarks.

You still speak softly as you agree, "I guess I wasn't."

You feel as if you're getting caught up in one of those crazy Hallmark movie moments. You just got released from jail, you arrive home to a forgiving partner and she's about to kiss you, welcome you home. All the tragedy and suffering you went through prior to this moment almost amounts to nothing, because it's just you and her. You're in love.

Of course, you know your life is never anything like those movies. In fact, the moment just before your lips touch hers, you feel a sudden cold literally wash over you. Catherine shouts out in surprise as well.

The water stops, you are soaking wet for the second time in less than twelve hours. Catherine's hair is partially soaked and she looks at you wide eyed. You both look at the porch now, see Paul is holding the garden hose and making a face. "I said I didn't care about you and Catherine. Doesn't mean I want to see you two be all cutesy and kissy face all the time. That's just weird."

Weird? He sprayed you with cold water because being 'kissy face with Catherine' is weird??

You feel your body start to shake in frustration. You just wanted to kiss her. You've had a very trying night and you wanted a little comfort. Is that too much to ask? You look at Catherine and say through clenched teeth. "You see why I didn't want to tell him about us? You see now?"

"Oh, I get it. I understand," Catherine immediately nods, affirming her comprehension. She squeezes some water out of her hair. "I get it."

"I'm going to kill him now," you tell her, just as a fair warning.

She steps back and motions for you to go. "Be my guest."

"Paul," you say, turning to him now. You watch his face pale, he drops the garden hose. He gulps slightly, his eyes widening fearfully. You narrow your eyes, "You're so going to wish you drowned in that pool last night!"

"Sara?" he says weakly, watching you charge him. He dashes out of the way of your stampeding anger. You nearly slam into the front door as you miss the target. He jumps off the porch and lands in the flowerbed. That, of course, now has Catherine screaming at him too. "It was a joke! It was just water! I really don't care about you and Catherine!"

You jump off the porch as well, begin chasing him around to the back of the house. "After all the hell you put me through last night, you selfish little brat, you think now is a good time to joke?"

He's around the corner of the house, in the backyard. You're in hot pursuit, Paul not nearly as fast as he likes to think he is. You corner him at a tree in the far left corner of the property. You both dance around it and he's quickly finding out he's got little place to run now.

So he squares up and prepares for the physical altercation to come.

* * *

You lean your head back, tissue in your nose.

You squint your eyes, looking at Catherine's kitchen ceiling. There's a water spot near the light fixture. You're going to have to remember to remind her of that. The shower upstairs might be leaking. Catherine is suddenly in your line of sight, looking down at you as you look up. She smiles sympathetically, "How's your nose?"

"Still bleeding," you answer. You wiggle your nose, hating that you sound even more nasally than usual, a wad of paper stuck up your right nostril. "How's Paul?"

"Honestly, I think you scared the piss out of him," Catherine remarks.

"Payback for last night," you mumble, quite satisfied with yourself.

"What?"

"Nothing. So, he's alright?" you ask again.

Catherine disappears from your view, her feet pad along the linoleum. "Oh, I think he'll be alright. He was actually raving to Lindsey about that right hook he delivered to your face. I know this isn't the first fight he's ever been in, but I think this is the first one he's proud of."

Proud? You frown, remove the tissue wad from your nose and finally look at Catherine. You state blandly, "He lost the fight."

"But he got in one hit. A hit that made you bleed," Catherine says, grinning. Why is she grinning? She shouldn't find this funny. It's not funny.

"So what if my nose is bleeding? I kicked his ass and he knows it," you insist. You fold your arms defiantly and repeat, "Kicked his ass."

"You are too cute for words sometimes," Catherine muses. "Although, the next time you decide to fight with Paul, you consider the repercussions. You both were abused, your father was violent. I don't think either of you should resort to physical violence every time you two disagree, okay?"

You remember how scared you were when Paul threatened you, when he pushed you to the ground and held you there. You were scared and you have no doubt that for a few moments, he was scared of you. You sigh deeply, acknowledging the levity of the situation. "You're right, Cath. I'll be more careful. We both will."

"Good," she says. She walks over and gently removes the tissue wad. She taps your nose playfully, smiling at you still. "I think you're all better now."

"I think we're both better, actually," you admit. "Paul and I. I think we're gonna be okay from now on."

"Glad to hear it," Catherine says sincerely. "Otherwise, things would be really awkward between us. _All _of us."

You have to chuckle. She could say that again.

"Sara? Catherine?" Paul says timidly, walking into the kitchen. He doesn't have a scratch on him, you notice. When you both look at him expectantly, he gives a small smile. "I, uh, I think have an idea on how to make up for what I did. For running off and. . .for spraying you with water."

"And for getting us arrested?" you add.

Paul nods. "For it all. So, next Saturday. Don't go to work, okay? Take the night off."

You can see Catherine's face softening, her curious smile widening. "Why? What's happening next Saturday?"

Paul holds in a giggle, runs a hand nervously through his hair. "Just don't work next Saturday. And dress up. You know, look pretty." With that, he scampers off.

"Wow," you say softly.

Catherine sits at the table with you. "Wow?"

"Paul has always been a bit selfish, but to think he's planning something for us? Just wow," you explain. Fearfully, you look at Catherine and say, "I apologize ahead of time for whatever debauchery that takes place on Saturday."

Catherine scoffs. "Sara, I'm sure Paul. . ."

"No, Catherine, I'm serious," you tell her. "Paul doesn't do this. He doesn't plan for others and if he is. . .Look, I apologize ahead of time. For whatever he does, I'm saying sorry right now."

"God, Sara. You're making me nervous," Catherine admits, her tone also dismaying.

"I'm sorry, it's just Paul keeps changing before my eyes. Everything I thought I knew about him is wrong and I don't know what to expect anymore," you say.

It's true. You really don't know what to expect anymore.

To be continued. . .


	19. Astounded

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Notes: Seriously, couldn't thank you all enough for the reviews and the support for this fic. I never thought I would get this kind of response. I'm sad I'm winding down to the end. After this, one chapter to go!

**Chapter Nineteen**

**Astounded**

"I was the other woman."

What? Your head snaps up, eyes meeting Lisa's blue-green ones for the first time all session. What did she just say? What time is it? How long have you been here? You lock your fingers together, begin to twiddle your thumbs. You manage to muster up a very feeble, "Excuse me?"

Lisa sighs deeply, leans back in her chair. "Sara, we've been sitting here for thirty minutes in silence. All you've managed to tell me is that Paul is planning some big thing for you this weekend, something I thought might display more anxiety within you, but you've only shrugged it off. You haven't talked about the pool incident, which frankly, I thought you would still be pissed about. You haven't talked about Termite House. You haven't talked about Catherine and you haven't looked me in the eyes, not once, until now. I know what's weighing on your mind and I might as well be truthful with you."

"The truth?" you say, voice uncertain.

"The truth is, I was the other woman," Lisa repeats. Oh. So you did hear her correctly. You're just not sure what that means, exactly.

Your mouth twitches up into a nervous grin. "I'm sorry. You're going to have to elaborate. . ."

"Eddie Willows. He was a charmer and I was an idiot," Lisa explains flatly. "You wanna know how I met Catherine? She caught me in her bed with her husband."

You swallow hard, letting those words sink in. Lisa has always been quite blunt with you, but maybe she could've used a little tact here? Ah, hell. How else would someone say something like _that?_ You lean forward, saying, "And Catherine still talks to you?"

Lisa can't seem to hold off the smile. "Yes."

"Why?" you blurt out, completely baffled. Then you lean back, embarrassed by the forcefulness in the question. You stammer a bit. "I'm sorry. . .I mean. . ."

"No, it's okay, Sara," Lisa says. "It's not really as awful as it sounds."

"Not awful? Lisa. Catherine caught you in _her_ bed with _her_ husband. How is that not awful?"

Again, your tone is bit more flippant than you'd like it to be, but now you see Lisa in a whole new light. A very enigmatic, deceitful, horrible light. Sure, you know people are flawed creatures in general, but adultery is nothing to sneeze at and it's not really what Lisa has done that has you so flabbergasted. It's knowing that both Grissom, Nick _and Catherine_ still vouched for Lisa even after the ultimate betrayal.

"You don't understand why Catherine still befriends me," Lisa states. You hate that she can read your mind sometimes. Lisa sighs inwardly, thoughtfully. "It's an answer that has eluded even myself, but I've come up with a few guesses over the years."

"Do tell," you insist.

"One, I was the last woman Eddie used against Catherine," Lisa shrugs. "Sometimes, I credit our affair to the divorce proceedings that immediately followed."

You squint your eyes some. "Soooo, you were the straw that broke the camel's back?"

"I guess you could say that," Lisa agrees. "Okay, so are we good? We can move past this weirdness and get on with it?"

"Uh, no. We're not good. Why would we be good?" you say, almost laughing. "Do you realize what you just told me?"

"I'm beginning to remember why I wasn't going to tell you," Lisa replies smartly.

"I think it's time I ended this arrangement," you propose suddenly. You stand from your chair and go for the door immediately.

"You hate me because I lied. People lie, Sara. You've lied and you've done so with great ease when it suits you. Nothing is going to change what I've done to Catherine, but she wasn't the only victim of that ridiculous tragedy."

"Ridiculous tragedy?" you say, stopping just before you grab the doorknob. "I think if you ask Catherine, she'll find nothing about it that was ridiculous. And don't even begin to suggest you were a victim. . ."

"Okay, it's my turn for the couch?" Lisa says, now rising from her chair. She stalks over to the couch she once pointed out for you, lies flat and stares up at you with determined eyes. "Yes, I think if you ask Catherine, she'll look back on that whole debacle of a marriage and point out parts that were outright ridiculous and stupid.

"Why am I victim? I didn't knowingly sleep with a married man, I never would. You don't have to believe that and Catherine certainly didn't, but Eddie never wore a ring. He never talked about his daughter, he never indicated he had any kind of family whatsoever. Eddie talked about everything but that and trust me, he was _great_ at talking. And sex. What more could a woman ask for? I had the whole package in Eddie. A man who talked and listened to me and comforted me when necessary. As I said before, I was an idiot. No man is that perfect."

You're still standing at the door, poised to leave. Your mind is yelling Go!, but your heart is coaxing you to stay. Just give her a few more minutes to redeem herself. You don't have to believe what she says.

"You told Catherine all that?" you say.

"Well, obviously with more tears and blubbering, but yes. I told her everything. How Eddie met me at a bar, told me about his aspirations to be a music producer. He was always telling me about the next big talent, buying me things with money he got from God knows where. As I relayed all this to Catherine, she finally told me to shut-up.

"Exactly three days later, she called me. She told me how she met Eddie. Eddie found her at the strip club where she was employed, told her the same things of music producer grandeur. It was then I realized she was relating her experience with mine. She was acknowledging that she, too, had been as guileless as I had been. It was the first conversation we had that didn't involve her yelling 'whore' every other word and me crying my eyes out."

They bonded, you realize. That was the moment Lisa and Catherine understood one another. The late, not-so-great Eddie Willows brought them together.

You finally look at Lisa, her determined gaze focused on you. She's not denying what happened, not trying to make totally lame excuses. She's making excuses, but they actually seem valid. She seems genuine in her recount of the events. You suddenly can't imagine Lisa ever crying as much as she claims she did. She seems so strong, so smart. How did she let Eddie fool her? Why do you believe anything that she says?

"Sara," Lisa says, finally sitting up on the couch, her gaze softening. "I know you care about Catherine deeply and I know telling you this only makes you want to defend her more, but I'm here to tell you: Catherine is fine. You don't have to protect her from me. I've already told you our relationship is strained. Strained, but stable."

You look at the floor momentarily, then reluctantly mosey your way over to the couch. Lisa makes a place for you to sit down and you do. After a few tense moments, you finally say, "You only gave me one theory as to why Catherine still talks to you."

You see Lisa smile easily now. "One, I credit my affair with Eddie to their divorce."

"Two?" you ask.

"Two, I think she liked yelling at me because she was sick of yelling at Eddie," Lisa goes on. "She used to storm in here months after the divorce proceedings started, screaming at me. Telling me it was my fault her life was in shambles. She was good at hurting me and she knew it."

You almost want to say, hey, I know the feeling. The fights you've had with Catherine over the years weren't always pretty. She knew what to say and when to say it, especially early on in your career here at Vegas. In your case, little snide remarks were Catherine's weapon of choice, but the size of the remarks didn't overshadow the pain they caused. You're happy that neither you or Catherine resort to hurting one another like that anymore.

You wonder if Catherine still yells at Lisa for what happened. Unsure of what to think about all this, you opt to continue looking at the floor. You ask softly, "Is there a third theory?"

"Three, Catherine came to me after Eddie was killed, giving me reason to think we had reached a truce. She thought I had a right to know," Lisa replies. "I still don't know why."

"Maybe she knew you really cared for Eddie," you suggest. "Maybe you still don't understand why she told you because up until that point, she hadn't said one nice word to you."

"Maybe," Lisa nods. She then somewhat conspiratorially bumps your shoulder with hers and says, "You sound like an expert."

You smile elfishly. "I know her. I really know who she is now."

Lisa looks at you, saying, "I know you and Catherine have had a strange relationship. I was definitely surprised when you told me the two of you were dating."

"She told you I worked Eddie's murder case," you deduce.

"Yeah," Lisa confirms. "She only said you were Sara, I didn't really know it was you; the same Sara that Grissom would mention on occasion."

"Ah. Did she tell you how I royally screwed up?" you ask, thinking you know the answer. Lisa surprises you, however.

"At first, she couldn't believe you were on the case," Lisa admits. "She then told me you were one of the best investigators in Vegas and that you did everything to find Eddie justice. She said it was important that I know that. That Eddie's case wasn't just pushed under the rug. You tried your best."

Catherine said all that? You shake your head, frustrated. "Why didn't she tell me these things? Why didn't she tell me about you, or how she really felt about Eddie's case?"

"Maybe she didn't know how," Lisa says.

Finally, you look at Lisa. You've never seen someone look more sorry than she does right now. You believe her when she says she wouldn't willingly sleep with a married man; she wouldn't purposely destroy a marriage even if said marriage was going down in flames. You believe her.

Then Lisa grabs your hand, a gesture that surprises you. She informs you knowingly, "Also, the way I hear it, Catherine didn't really expect to fall for you either."

Damn. You really can be quite dullard sometimes, you know this, but damn. You were so transfixed on what Lisa meant to Catherine, that you haven't once thought about what Catherine was really going through. Catherine is good at hiding her feelings, despite what you may have previously thought. She's outwardly expressed she wants to be with you, but she's only once mentioned concern about the future. Only once has she told you, "I want assurance."

She wants you, but she also wants assurance from you. You think Lisa wants to hear this as well. Lisa and Catherine's relationship is strained, yet stable. They have come to care about one another through the most convoluted of means. Lisa doesn't want Catherine to go through that same kind of hurt again; the kind of hurt that Lisa obviously still regrets being the cause of. Lisa also wants assurance that you'll stick around.

"I won't hurt Catherine," you say, with not an ounce of uncertainty in your tone. "Lisa, she's safe with me."

"I already knew that, but thanks," Lisa replies. "I think it's time you told her that, though."

You have to smirk, averting your eyes away from the psychiatrist. Lisa was the other woman. You feel silly now, considering you thought she was a different kind of 'other woman'. Now you know and you hate that she told you, despite how much you wanted to know.

Rubbing your eyes tiredly, you say aloud, "I hate talking to you."

"No you don't," Lisa answers confidently.

"Oh and don't think I'm not mad about the pool incident. I'm mad at _you_," you clarify. "It's your fault that happened in the first place."

Lisa is definitely shocked by your accusation, something she rarely expresses ever. "You're mad at me?"

"Yeah, you told Paul he could 'take walks'. I guess you didn't think it was important to clarify that he walk around the block," you go on. "He walked half the damn city to a gym, Lisa!"

Lisa frowns. "Sara, I had no way of knowing. . ."

You both jump when there's a loud knocking on the door. Paul's voice rings loud and true as he yells, "Sara! What's going on?? I'm missing Emeril!! Today was the dessert special!!"

You glance at the time on her desk clock, your session exceeding the time limit by about fifteen minutes.

"Oh wow, I'm late for another appointment," Lisa realizes, rising from the couch. You immediately stand with her, wait on her to gather a briefcase and purse, then walk out of her office with her. Lisa is quick to console Paul, "We had a major breakthrough today, Paul. Sorry to hold you up."

"It's okay," Paul shrugs, the anger you heard just moments before seemingly gone. Lisa excuses herself quickly. Paul looks at you and asks, "What's a breakthrough?"

"It's a moment where both parties look like monumental assholes," you explain flatly. You get a confused expression in return. You didn't expect him to understand.

* * *

Catherine opens the door, eyes squinted in confusion. She checks her watch, as she remarks, "Aren't you guys a bit early tonight?"

Yeah. Thanks to baby brother over here. Insert eye roll, please.

Paul is standing next to you. Well, more like subtly bouncing up and down in pure elation. After chatting it up with Lisa, you talked to Paul about the future (of all things). Somehow, he managed to convince you that _this _was a good idea. He's about as happy as a one-eyed dog in a meat market. You, on the other hand, are extremely nervous about the idea you're about to propose.

Clearing your throat, you say, "Well, we're early because I wanted to tell you something. It couldn't wait."

"Say it already," Paul says through clenched teeth. You smack his arm to keep him quiet.

Catherine produces a wary smile, her eyes flitting between both you and Paul. She finally says, "Okay. What do you want to tell me?"

"Well, I've been compiling all the facts. Thinking over and over about this and I think. . ., okay, this isn't what I wanted to say," you stammer, laughing nervously. Paul is still bouncing next to you, ready to burst. All the little speeches you prepared for this moment escape you. All you can say is this: "Look, Cath. The point is, Paul hates my apartment and he wants a pool. I'm Nikki and you're Ricardo."

"Roberto," Paul corrects you immediately. "You're Nikki and she's. . ."

"Whatever, Paul! Back up!" you push him away, then turn back to a very bewildered Catherine. "Paul thinks we should move in. . .that I should ask you to let us move in with you and Lindsey. Forever. He wants a pool. Honestly, I think it's a . . ."

"Great idea," Catherine cuts in, grinning at you.

"Yes!" Paul celebrates, hopping up and down. He even dances around, produces a few fist pumps. "I told you she would say 'yes'!"

"You think it's a good idea?" you say, dumbfounded. "Catherine, we've barely . . ."

Speech is suddenly gone, all that remains is her mouth covering yours. You don't know anything else, nor do you want to know anything else. The kiss is brief and sweet, but in that short span of time, her lips had moved over yours in such a fashion. . .it was unlike anything you had ever felt before. It was magic.

When she pulls back, the world rushes back in and you hear Paul whooping loudly behind you. You guess that whole 'kissy face' thing is alright, now that he knows he can live with Catherine forever.

"Sara, I never wanted you to leave," Catherine admits, her eyes softening as she speaks. She pulls you into a warm embrace and says, "I wasn't lying when I said I liked having you around. I was almost secretly hoping you would never get better."

If you never got over your bout with pneumonia, you would've been under Catherine's care indefinitely.

"I guess we're moving back in," you smile shyly.

Paul lands a big kiss on Catherine's cheek before storming into the house to tell Lindsey. With Paul gone, your eyes automatically land on her lips again. She kisses you happily, as if reading your mind. Softly, slowly. Both her hands caressing your face, this act of tenderness the most loving gesture she's displayed yet.

You really have fallen in love with her, which is why you have to say something. You reluctantly pull away, tell her, "Lisa talked to me."

"Hmm," Catherine hums against your lips. She already knows what Lisa told you, you don't have to elaborate. Her half-lidded eyes shift up to look into yours. "Guess that means we need to talk?"

"No, not now," you shake your head. "I'm done talking today. I just want to spend time with you."

Catherine smiles widely. "Okay. Well, we've got a little time before. . ."

"Let's play hooky," you grin, waggle your eyebrows suggestively.

Catherine is taken aback by your suggestion. So much so, she pulls out your grasp. "You mean, skip work? You wanna skip work, go get drunk and possibly egg Ecklie's house?"

"I wanna go on an actual first date before I officially move in for the second time," you jest, eliciting a small laugh from Catherine. After a brief moments contemplation, you add, "And I definitely want to egg Ecklie's house."

Catherine chuckles before you lean in to kiss her this time. This would turn into an all out make-out session, but your brother always has other plans. A sudden crash from within the house ruins the bliss. Should that really surprise you?

You can't help but groan, as both you and Catherine promptly enter the house to see what the commotion is.

Lindsey yells down the stairway, "Mom! Paul broke your favorite vase!"

"Liar!" quickly follows Paul's rebuttal.

A brief glance at Catherine tells you that actually finding the guilty party won't be easy. Catherine knows Lindsey will lie when she feels it necessary. You know Paul will lie to avoid upsetting Catherine. It could've been either one of them, or both. You'll never know for sure.

You look at her, say apologetically, "Well, you did say moving in would be a great idea."

"I know," she acknowledges blandly.

"And I think we made a deal a while back? I would pay for any damages brought on by Paul?" you remind her. "I'll replace it."

Catherine sighs heavily. "Mom bought me that vase. It's one of kind."

You grimace. Crap.

* * *

You've been down this road a million times before.

No, seriously. You've literally driven this road a million times. It leads out into the deserts of Nevada and with night already fallen, the sand is cool to the touch. Most people travel out here, well past Henderson and beyond, to participate in a 'sport' called birding. Birding, an easy way to say 'bird watching', is not why _you_ drive out here though. For you, this area of the desert has always been so inspiring and relaxing.

You talk out here, talk to the desert after the really rough cases. Sometimes, you listen to the desert. It's one of the more meaningful, long term relationships you've ever had. The one place where you truly feel some kind of spiritual awareness. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you always knew you would be bringing Catherine out here.

Off the main road you go, over a surprisingly smooth terrain until you reach your destination. A patch of desert enclosed by dry shrubs and blanketed by a perfectly clear sky.

After popping open the wine and spreading a couple of blankets, you begin to point up toward the stars. You name the constellations, tell stories of their origin and Catherine actually listens to you with wonder. She doesn't think this is lame, which you totally and fully expected. You think she likes this desert paradise just as much as you do.

You lie side by side now, your babble of stars and planets done and over with. The wine is half gone, heartbeats lull at a perfect rhythm. You feel like a true romantic.

"Sara?" Catherine calls out to you, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah?" you answer, turning your head to meet her eyes. The blue tint of her eyes is really striking tonight; it just bores right through you. You've always thought her eyes were powerful, but for different reasons. Before this, all you could see was annoyance or anger. Now, her eyes just immobilize you.

"Why weren't we friends before?" she asks curiously, gently. She knows the question is gonna stir up some unpleasant memories, but her tone suggests that she's absolutely boggled by it all. It is a good question, you suppose. Considering how well you get along now, why weren't you friends before?

"I guess I could list numerous, hackneyed cliches to answer that," you say, only half joking.

"I don't wanna hear them," Catherine immediately protests. "None of that 'two strong, stubborn woman vying for their boss's attention and trying to one up each other' nonsense. It has to be more than that."

You can see all the subtle nuances in Catherine's face, the faintest of twitches beneath her eyes. The way her nose flares when she's frustrated. You can see she's really bothered, but you can't understand why it should bother her at all. You half smile, wonder aloud, "Does it matter now?"

"It matters if time was wasted," she says wistfully. She finally breaks eye contact with you, returns her gaze to the night sky above. "I was so bitter about Lisa and Eddie for so long. . .then Holly's death, Warrick's gambling, everything just seemed to pile up! Lindsey was acting out in school, she favored Eddie. When you arrived. . .I don't know. I wonder if I wasted too much time being angry with the world instead of seeing what was right in front of me."

"You weren't the only one who was angry," you remind her. "The timing was just wrong back then, Cath."

You see Catherine's mouth turn up into a small grin. "Did you feel it back then?"

"Feel it?" you repeat. "Feel what?"

She turns her head back to you, still grinning. "What you feel now, for me. Did you feel it back then?"

You snort, which you don't mean to do. It's just a normal reaction, something you would've done had Greg or Nick or Warrick had asked. You answer honestly, "No. No, I didn't love you then."

"Me either," she says, chuckling now. You think the wine has you both a bit buzzed. "I hated you then."

"Me too," you say with relief. You don't know why you're relieved or why her laughter is so contagious. You can't stop giggling, even when her body is suddenly on top of yours, her mouth devouring your mouth. You laugh between kisses, even mutter a few times "I hated you too", but continue to kiss her back anyway.

You can taste the wine on her tongue, feel her golden hair brush against your face as it falls off her shoulders. One of her hands finds its way up your shirt and that delightful touch against your abdomen does inspire some kind of common sense to roll through you.

"Cath," you say, when she allows for air intake. "We're outside. . .desert. . ."

"Don't care," she proclaims breathlessly, toying with the hem of your jeans. She even jokes, "Not the best time to remember you're modest, Sara."

Despite your own misgivings, you do kiss her again, then try to reason with her one last time. "At least we have a car back there...with less prickly things jabbing me in the back."

"Too cramped," she protests, leaving a hot trail of kisses down your neck, placing the last kiss just above the low neckline of your shirt. She slides back up your body slowly, the sensual contact doing exactly what she wants it to do. Your soft moan does not go unnoticed and it's quite apparent you're so going to cave to whatever she demands. She smiles wickedly at you, "It's nice out here."

"You really do read trashy romance novels!" you jest lightly. "Did Nikki and Ricardo have the desert as their backdrop too?"

"It's Roberto," Catherine corrects you, then kisses you again and again.

You snake your hands into her hair, return the increasingly fevered kisses and even though you know your back will regret this romp out in the desert come morning, you find that you don't care about that at all in this moment.

Come hell or spiky cactus, you'll have this woman. She'll have you. This desert getaway has garnered a whole new appeal this night; a greater one, in fact. All because you've discovered a new constellation to admire out here and she's all yours.

to be continued. . .


	20. Ready Or Not

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Author's Notes: I managed to title each chapter with one word, but this last one, I just couldn't find one word to wrap everything up. So I needed three words. :D It also took me a while to get this posted because I kept editing. Taking stuff out, putting stuff back in. Finally, I just left everything in, so this is a much longer chapter to close things out. Hope it's sufficient! I'm quite nervous, but when am I not?

A huge thank you to everyone who read and stuck with this story. Every review was cherished, considered and appreciated. I actually did set this up to continue if I so choose, so if you'd like to see more adventures with Paul Sidle, you can plead your case at the end of this. (But I don't make any promises)

**Chapter Twenty**

**Ready (Or Not)**

Jonas Wright is no longer in critical condition.

You're not likely to compare yourself to other people, but more and more, you find that you and Jonas are eerily similar. The similarities aren't obvious to others, just to you.

When he talked of his mother, his voice was harsh but his eyes were gentle. He loved his mother. You loved your mother, even if you don't care to admit that.

Jonas talked of his mother 'forgetting'. She forgot that they weren't speaking. You had to understand what that meant. Doc Robbins hadn't mentioned anything during the autopsy of Mrs. Wright to indicate she was sick with some memory debilitating disease. So, you researched her medical history. You figured it out and upon figuring it out, you found even one more similarity between you and Jonas.

You enter Jonas' hospital room, see him lying awake in his bed. You cautiously approach, not sure if smiling at him is even appropriate. You_ are_ about to draw a confession from him. No, smiling is not appropriate this time.

The evidence has already given you a plausible scenario of events, but you want to hear it from Jonas.

You stand by the bed. His eyes flit to you for a second before turning away. He shakes his head, obviously not ready to talk.

"Your mother fell down the steps, right Jonas?" you say quietly. "Her head injury, that caused her memory loss. That's why she forgot you left her."

Jonas stays silent. You think of your mom again. She had head injuries, but they weren't from falling down the stairs. If _only _her injuries were accidental.

You continue on, "You told her what happened. Told her the house was falling apart and that she needed to sell it. She fell down the stairs because the first step collapsed under her. She wouldn't hear it. It hurt that she didn't believe you, so you tried to hate her for it. You still loved her too much."

Jonas still won't look at you, but the slight quiver of his lips tells you all you need to know.

"Listen. We know Mark was your friend, Jonas. He killed your mother and almost killed you. Ballistics proves all that," you tell him. Listing the facts has always proved an effective method when trying to get suspects to talk. It doesn't fail you now.

"She wouldn't sell the house," Jonas says, something he's told you before. His voice is hoarse, sad. You feel more sorry for him now than you did just minutes before walking into his room. "Mark and I needed the property, we needed the money. We tried to convince her the house was unsafe, to sell it over to us and we would fix it up, make a profit. She was just so stubborn and her injury made her forget. She was stubborn."

"Why did Mark shoot her?" you ask.

Jonas' lips quiver again. Just enough to let you know he's human. "I wasn't there. He called me, freaking out. He said the termites we poured into the vents weren't working. That she was just going to call an exterminator and he just couldn't take it anymore. He lost his cool. Mark was always a hothead. There was nothing I could do. I went over there to help him clean up. I got the hose and washed the house down."

"After we questioned you, you went back to the house."

"I went to tell Mark that I couldn't sell the house. I mean, my mother was dead and she was dead because I pressured her to do something she never wanted. I told him I would fix up the house, in memory of Mom. Mark was pissed, no surprise. He was waving around the gun, first shot was an accident. The next two shots. . ., he just panicked after hearing the police outside ready to storm the place."

You find a chair and sit down. "Jonas. You'll be charged with conspiracy to commit murder and fraud."

"So I heard," he says calmly. "Is Mark dead?"

"Yeah," you answer. Should you say your bullet killed him? No. You rise from the chair, go to leave.

"Ms. Sidle?"

You turn around.

"You said my mother wouldn't let me live my own life. That was the reason I went after her, tried to kill her, take her house. That's not true."

"What is true?"

"It's true that she forgot. She forgot we weren't really talking, but that didn't mean I hated her. I just wanted what was best. So did Mark. After a while, though, I guess all we both saw in the end was the bottom line."

"You got greedy," you say.

"We had a developer just waiting on us to get the property," Jonas can't help but smile sadly. "Millions, they said. Could've bought Mom a better house."

Jonas shuts his eyes then, an indication that he's done confessing to you.

Catherine is waiting in the hallway. You walk up to her, a frown etched on your face. She hooks an arm in yours as you both leave. You sigh deeply. "I think the evidence would've eventually buried him in court, but I believe he'll cop to it all anyway. I think he just wants it to be over. He won't fight it. He feels guilt for what happened."

"You feel empathy," Catherine states.

"I know what it's like to live with a mom like Mrs. Wright," you say. "A stubborn personality mixed with delicacy. Weakness. The only time I ever felt Mom was in control of her faculties was the day she stabbed my father. The only time she was completely sane and sure of herself."

The walk down the hall seems long and arduous, but eventually you reach Jim Brass waiting near the elevators. Jim asks, "He confessed?"

You nod.

"Think he'll repeat it all, write it down officially?"

Confidently, you confirm, "Yeah, he will."

He'll regret it for the rest of his life, sure, but he'll write it down. Jonas is just another reminder for you. An auspicious, heaven sent reminder to be thankful that you got a second chance with Paul. A second chance to reunite what was left of your family. You'll never forget Jonas. He'll probably forget you.

* * *

"Sara, for the last time, I'm not telling you," Paul says, exasperated. You've been bugging him for the last few days now. You have to know what he has planned for Saturday, damn it. You just have to know.

He's only given you little bits and pieces, but nothing much to go on. You know he's inviting 'his friends', which you would assume are your friends. Your friends are Paul's friends, after all. The food will be 'awesome and great'. Those are his words. He's telling you something without telling you something. You could strangle him.

He keeps reminding you to dress up. Don't wear those black slacks, he admonished. You wear those all the time, he went on. You asked him why he doesn't badger Catherine about her attire and he simply replied, "I don't have to worry about what Catherine will wear." Paul thinks he's funny sometimes.

"You don't think I have a right to know a little?" you ask, following him outside. He's been mapping out the backyard for the pool Catherine sorta promised to get. To Paul, that means a pool is totally in the bag. He sits on the patio, pulls out his markers and paper and begins drawing out a layout of the backyard again. He's got about twenty different pool design ideas already. He can be creative when he wants.

You fold your arms, continue to make your case. "I mean, Paul, it's a little weird for me, you know? You don't plan stuff for . . . me."

"It's for you _and_ Catherine," he reminds you. He looks up at you momentarily. "I'm planning for you both. It's important."

You sit down next to him, admire his childlike drawings and blow air out your mouth in frustration. "I get that it's important and I'm happy you've got your mind focused on this one thing, but . . .it's just weird, Paul!"

"You wanted me to be happy for you and Catherine," he says. "You wanted me to be happy and now I'm trying to show you that I am happy. Can't you be happy that I'm happy?"

You sulk. "Yeah, I'm happy you're happy."

Paul smiles goofily. "Great. You're gonna be so surprised. After Saturday, we'll be a real family."

You don't understand what he means. "Paul, we are a family."

Paul considers you for a millisecond, before he starts drawing out a pool design. "I know we're a family, but it'll be better after Saturday. You'll see."

You chuckle uneasily. "Paul, I don't think I understand. . ."

The doorbell interrupts the conversation, but it's probably just as well. Sometimes, you have a hard time deciphering what Paul is trying to say to you.

Warrick is at the door when you answer it. His look of surprise isn't all that unexpected, but it is somewhat amusing nonetheless. It still doesn't make much sense in your own mind, so why should it make sense to him?

You are answering Catherine's door; you can't believe that you have the _right_ to answer Catherine's door, but that door is no longer just hers, now is it? The door belongs to both of you now. So technically, you are answering _your_ door. It's your door too. Warrick doesn't know that yet.

He's got a box of files in his hands, or so it would appear, and his bewildered expression begins to morph into a more friendly one as he asks, "Catherine around? Grissom wanted me to drop these off for her."

"Oh?" you say, stepping aside to let him in. He does a quick once over of your attire: pajama pants and tank top, bare feet and hair pulled back in a ponytail. You probably look completely at home. He looks even more confused.

He quickly walks into the family room and drops the box on the coffee table, pretending that nothing is bothering him. You follow him, trying to hold your amusement at bay.

"Catherine took Lindsey to some school related thing. What do ya have there?"

"Uh, employee reviews and stuff like that. You know. The paperwork Gris always shoves off on Cath," Warrick says, smiling uneasily. His eyes are still bemused. He finally lets his curiosity get the best of him. "Uh, are you. . .? Did you and Cath, um. . .? I guess what I mean is, you just look real comfortable."

You think you might mess with him a bit. You repeat, "Comfortable? Not sure I know what you mean, Warrick."

Warrick chuckles apprehensively, goes to step back and before you can warn him, he trips over a moving box. He falls over the arm of the couch and lands on both pillows and cushion. Embarrassed, he spies what he tripped over. A box. In fact, he notices several boxes. He looks to you for an explanation.

You think it's time to alleviate Warrick's bemusement. "I moved in. Rather, we're still moving in. That's Paul's box of cooking stuff there. I told him to take care of that yesterday, come to think of it."

You're not sure what Warrick was thinking, but he seems more relieved than he did minutes prior.

"Ah, okay, okay. You moved in. That's great, Sara," Warrick says, his smile less forced and more genuine now. He sits up properly on the couch and repeats, "That's great. I'm happy for the both of you."

"Thanks," you say shyly.

"Honestly, with how comfortable you looked and the boxes...I thought you two scampered off to Cali and got hitched or something," Warrick confesses. When he sees your eyebrow raise, he quickly covers up his assumption. "Not that I would think that's bad. . .just it would've been sudden and maybe a little backwards. But it's a good sudden. . .thing. I'm glad you guys decided to live together."

You don't think you've ever seen Warrick blush or stammer so much. It's cute. You also wonder why he jumped to that conclusion in the first place. You push hair back behind your ears, make a suggestion to change the subject. "You wanna stick around? I'm sure Cath wouldn't mind having you here for dinner."

"Actually, I can't. I mean, I would love to, but I have a date," Warrick confesses, now sounding a bit shy himself.

You nearly squeal with excitement at the news, which is so unlike you. "Who's the lucky girl, Rick? C'mon, you can tell me."

"Remember Tina? I ran into her at Kahunaville, during your little party," he says. His eyes are so happy as he speaks. "This is actually date number three."

"Do I hear wedding bells, Mr. Brown?" you tease.

"Lord, I hope not," he laughs. A deep, hearty laugh that makes his green eyes squint up; shows off those pearly whites. You love to see Warrick laugh. He gets up off the couch and says, "It's still too soon to tell with Tina. You and Catherine have a better shot at getting hitched, from what I hear."

He heard what? His little statement is accompanied with a wink and a nod and you don't understand why. Why does he keep hinting at the idea of a wedding? Before you can inquire any further, another voice cuts in.

"Don't scare her off, Warrick," Catherine calls from the front door. You turn, see her walking in with Lindsey in tow. She jokes, "Mention marriage and she might run off."

"My bad," Warrick immediately apologizes, grinning goofily. Something is really off with him. He even leans in and says quietly to you, "I get it. I'll lay off now."

"What?" you whisper back, but he's gone.

He quickly kisses Catherine on the cheek and makes his retreat. "Hate to run out on you beautiful ladies, but I'm gonna be late if I don't. See you."

"Bye," you both say.

You both stand together in the foyer, long after Warrick leaves. Finally, Catherine speaks. "That was odd."

"Yeah," you agree. "Warrick doesn't do 'odd' well."

"No, he doesn't," Catherine says, folding her arms, deep in thought. "I'll try and figure out what's going on at work tonight."

"Good idea," you say.

Something is definitely off.

"Mom?"

You both turn to Lindsey, who looks somewhat guilty. She folds her arms and confesses, "I think I should tell you something. About Paul's party."

Catherine is definitely concerned as she leads Lindsey to the couch almost immediately, sits her down and coaxes gently, "What is it, sweetie? Nothing bad?"

You cautiously step closer, but you don't invade their space. You have a feeling Lindsey will get this out easier if she's just talking specifically to Catherine.

Lindsey half shrugs, seeming uncertain. "Well, it might be. Paul asked me not to tell, but I don't want to get in trouble later for not telling you."

"Well, I promise not to tell Paul you told me," Catherine reassures, smiling now. Maybe she assumes this trouble isn't all it's cracked up to be. She encourages, "Go ahead. Tell me."

"Well, Paul needed help with the party," Lindsey explains. "He was so bummed, knowing he didn't have the money for one. So, I might've told him about. . .Sam."

Catherine's eyes go wide. You cough.

You repeat warily, "Sam? Sam Braun?"

Lindsey nods. "Yeah. Paul went to Sam to help plan the party. I told him you wouldn't like that, but he was kinda like a steamroller after I told him. There was no stopping him."

Paul Sidle and Sam Braun. Talk about a family get together.

You look at Catherine worriedly, who returns the look two-fold. You know you're both thinking the same thing. If Paul went to Sam Braun for a favor, what did Sam Braun want in return?

* * *

Saturday.

Your mission to figure out why Warrick was so odd didn't pan out. The truth was, both you and Catherine were just too busy with a new case. Too much evidence to collect, process, analyze. Greg did wink at you a lot, but again, not much time to pull him aside and figure out why. Now it's Saturday, the big day and you still have no idea why Warrick was so odd.

The limousine stops. Catherine throws open the door.

It was never said Sam Braun spared no expense.

You take Catherine's hand as you exit the limousine. Your heels unexpectedly sink into the ground. Upon inspecting the soft surface beneath your feet, you notice a red carpet. Seriously? A red carpet. You look at Catherine, see the bewildered expression on her face as well. It's as if you stepped into some Hollywood premiere. You certainly look like you belong in one.

Catherine has got on a little strapless number, solid blue. The hem is just above her calves and she's tied her hair up. You actually went with a patterned dress, thin shoulder straps, open toed heels. You had shown the outfit to Paul for pre-approval yesterday. He gave the thumbs up.

You both step forward cautiously. There aren't any paparazzi around, of course, but this is Vegas and it's living up to its name tonight. There's lights and music all around, people and the faint scent of booze in the air. There's also this red carpet leading you to the large, golden double doors of Sam Braun's newest hotel.

How did Paul manage this? You really don't know. All you do know is that Lindsey told Paul that Sam was Catherine's father. He asked Sam to help him with this party. Sam sent a limo to the house. Here you are.

"This feels really wrong," Catherine says.

"I'm glad you finally said it," you say, clasp her hand tighter. "Did I already apologize for this?"

"Several times," Catherine nods. She wasn't too thrilled Paul contacted Sam on this. You're certain you'll never be able to apologize enough, but the least you can do is try and enjoy the night. Paul went all out for the both of you. You just gotta try and enjoy the night. Worry about the repercussions later.

You look around the entrance of the casino, take in the crowds of people, the flashy suits and ties. The black cocktail dresses. It's all so extravagant. It's all so very much _unlike_ Paul Sidle. Paul Sidle doesn't dream these kinds of things up, there's just no way. Although, you wonder if the cooking channel on television gave him any of these party ideas. He does like to absorb any and all information from those shows. He also had Sam's help. This is so unlike Paul.

"Catherine! Sara! You're here!"

It's Greg. Paul invited Greg Sanders to whatever the hell this shindig is. He's dressed to the nines, looking too sharp to touch. If you thought his hair had started to look nice at work lately, you definitely think it looks fantastic now. He got it cut close to his head, just enough on top to slick back with some gel product. He immediately rushes up to hug you both. At some point, your hand ends up in his and he studies it closely.

You chuckle uneasily. "Looking for something?"

Greg winks at you. "I get it. I get it, you sneaky devils! It's okay, it's okay. You don't have to wear the rings."

"Rings?" Catherine repeats, but Greg doesn't hear her confusion or chooses to ignore her.

"Look, everyone is already here, just waiting on you. God, I can't believe this! Anyway, Paul really went all out and to say I'm impressed is an understatement, but we're all so happy for you two! C'mon!"

He sounds like a prattling school girl. Something is off.

"You guys, seriously, have no idea how hard it was for me to keep quiet, but Paul insisted."

Now Greg is acting odd. More odd than usual.

He is pulling you both by the hand until you reach the doors. He shows you in and proceeds to lead the way toward the back of the hotel. Both you and Catherine fall a few steps behind Greg on purpose, giving you some privacy. You lean down to Catherine and whisper, "What the hell is he talking about? All I did was move in with you."

"I have no idea. Why was Greg expecting us to wear rings. . .Oh. My. God."

Catherine has suddenly stopped and you stop with her. You look at her worriedly. "Cath? Catherine, what's wrong?"

She's utterly speechless, eyes frozen open with what looks to be fear and utter disarray. Fear? Disarray? What could she have seen to render her this way? You take a deep breath and follow her shocked gaze. You have to know what has scared her so.

When your eyes land on the banner hanging from the ceiling, your expression suddenly mirrors that of your girlfriend's. Your mouth drops open, your eyes widen to the size of saucers. You read the words on the banner several times over before you can even being to fathom that it's real. Catherine grips your forearm tightly for support and you think you hear her say "Oh God" again.

"Catherine," you manage to squeak out.

You think she says something in response.

"I'm going to kill him," you promise. "I mean it this time."

You begin to stalk off before Catherine can stop you. You rush your way down the corridor, push past a befuddled Greg Sanders, walk beneath the banner above your head and a scowl sets deeply on your face. You're going to _kill_ him!

So, what does the banner say?, inquiring minds would like to know. In bright bold letters it proclaims: _Catherine and Sara: Congratulations On Your Engagement! Best Wishes!_

It's a damn _engagement _party! Paul set up an _engagement party!!_ He told all these people you're _engaged_ to Catherine Willows!! He. . .You. . .Damn him, you're going to kill him!

You storm into the ballroom, see droves of people you don't know and some you might. All your co-workers from the lab are here. Hell, Lisa is here! How could he do this? That little, manipulative. . .

At the top of your lungs, you bellow, "Paul Sidle! I'm going to _kick your ass!_"

The DJ stops spinning music; the crowd lurches to a halt. They all look in your direction, or at the very least the direction of your voice. You scan the crowd for Paul, who conveniently, can't be found. You do spot Sam Braun, though, with his sunny smile and uncharacteristically cheery demeanor. In fact, he's the one who points out Paul to you, wrapping a much too friendly arm around your brother.

"Sara. . ."

Warrick. You turn to him and he automatically steps back, the look on your face must speak of death. "Whoa, girl. What's going on?"

"That's what this was all about!" you hiss, inching closer to Warrick. He takes another cautionary step back. Your voice is still hushed as you continue, "Paul told you I proposed to Catherine, right? He told you that? He told _everyone_ that's what this party was for?"

Warrick nods, not sure he should speak.

You could just scream right now! Hell, you might just do that.

"Paul lied," you state furiously. You turn around and search the crowd. "That little punk ass, son of a . . ."

"So, you definitely weren't in on this?" Warrick finally asks the rhetorical question. He rubs a hand over his bewildered face. "God, Sara. When I came over yesterday, I thought you had planned on proposing tonight before the party. That's what Paul told me. . ."

"Sara, hey, hey," Greg rushes up, cutting off an even more befuddled Warrick Brown. "Where's the fire?"

"What did Paul tell you?" you ask, turning to Greg now.

Greg glances at Warrick, who still looks a bit petrified, then back to you. He says knowingly, "Paul lied about you proposing to Cath, didn't he?"

Your expression must still be mimicking death because Greg retreats back to where Warrick is standing.

"Then we should probably convince Sam to cancel that interview with the local paper," Greg suggests, mostly to Warrick, but loud enough for you to hear as well. He smiles sheepishly, "Sam is happy for Cath. Sam really likes Paul so by default, he likes you as Cath's fiancee. Er...I mean, Cath's live-in girlfriend."

"Um, is there a problem?" Nick approaches now. He's holding a wine glass awkwardly, probably trying to decide if he should set it down somewhere or hold onto it.

"Paul told everyone Cath and I are engaged," you say.

Nick smiles. "Uh, yeah, Sara. That's why we're here. . .oh. Oh boy."

"Yeah," you say. You repeat sarcastically, "Oh."

"He told us you moved in," Nick says, letting his head lull back. "Sara, it's our fault."

"Nick, shut up," Greg hisses. He then looks at you. "It's nothing. . "

"No, Sara. Paul called me at home. I put him on speaker," Nick explains. "Greg was hanging with me. He called to let us know you no longer lived at your apartment, that you lived with Cath and to call there if we needed you. I told Paul that was great, you know? Greg then piped in and joked about how 'first comes love, next comes marriage'. You know, that little rhyme we all used to say as kids. Paul must've taken Greg's words literally."

"It was a joke," Greg says meekly while you glare at him.

The party is starting to pick up again, the curious onlookers probably assuming that Paul merely did some annoying kid brother thing. In a way, he had, but he's no ordinary kid brother.

You look around slowly, eyes passing over Greg, Nick and Warrick. You're so damn dizzy all of a sudden, the little beverages stands, the tables for dinner and a dance floor that lights up from underneath; they all start to blend together. There's even a Japanese food grill station, a chef performing tricks and making delectable treats. Aside from Emeril, Paul loves watching stuff like that. You can't believe this. You need a drink.

When your sweep of the extravagant ballroom is complete, Catherine and Grissom approach. Catherine is leaning heavily into Grissom, probably still in shock. Grissom smiles sympathetically, "Congratulations?"

"Thanks," you say flatly, snatching a wine glass from a passing tray. You drain the entire contents swiftly. You need another one.

"Sara!"

There's baby brother. You turn just as he slams into you and hugs you tightly. He pulls back and you really look at him. Your anger dissipates for a moment as you look at his face. "Paul. You shaved."

He rubs a hand over his clean shaven face, very proud of himself. You haven't seen his face in _years, _you realize_._ He looks like Dad, just not nearly as psycho. Paul is handsome. You do notice how there isn't one cut or nick on his face, so you wonder if one of Sam's bartender goons cleaned up your little brother and made him more presentable.

Paul wraps an arm around your shoulders and proclaims, "See? Happy for you and Catherine. I've even set the perfect date for the ceremony."

Catherine must've gotten her wits about her, because she squeezes in between you and Paul, separating you both. She gently tugs Paul down to her level, gripping the lapel of his suit jacket tightly. "One problem, darling. Sara and I are _not _engaged."

Wow. You think that Catherine might actually be seriously upset with Paul. You wish you had popcorn for this momentous occasion. Hell, you might just laugh in triumph! Ain't no way Paul is gonna get chocolate chip cookies out of this one! Not enough tears or apologies in the world!

Paul does seem to visibly gulp, before asking innocently. "You don't want to be engaged?"

Catherine smiles, but you know it's not of a friendly nature. It's the kind of smile that clearly means she's royally ticked off. Holy hell, you think she might actually slap Paul! Where the hell is your camera?

"Paul, honey, I kinda hoped one of us would know about the engagement ahead of time," Catherine says as calmly as possible. She's obviously trying to avoid making a scene, which is good, because you'd be scuffling with Paul on the dance floor right about now.

"We're gonna let you sort this out," Nick says, the awkwardness evident. The boys slink away, but Grissom stays close. He knows the two of you well enough and he probably can sense a volcano ready to erupt.

"Catherine," Paul says quietly. "Can you let me go?"

She still has a death grip on his jacket, still has him bent over so she can look him in the eye. Paul insists gently, "Everyone is staring at us. . .Catherine. . ."

Catherine reluctantly lets him go, but orders, "Don't go anywhere."

Paul stays rooted in place. Calmly, you try Catherine's approach. Firm angry words with a hint of sarcastic happiness. "Paul, you had to know we wouldn't approve of this."

"Which is why I didn't tell you," Paul says coyly. He does step back, because Catherine actually advances toward him in irritation. He knows he's in trouble now. "Wait, wait. I know I shouldn't have, but I had to! I found Sam and when I told him about the party I wanted, he was so happy. He assumed it was an engagement party and I couldn't break his heart."

"There's not much of a heart there to break, Paul. I don't know what you think of him or what he's told you, but he's not the nicest man in the world," Catherine says sadly. "He lies, Paul. He's good at it."

"My father was worse," Paul says simply.

Was your father worse than Sam Braun? Probably in some ways. When Catherine looks at you, a conflict in her eyes, you panic. Paul just played his trump card. Catherine wants to be upset, but once again, Paul's cuteness is starting to win her over. He's pulled his 'innocent, kid brother' card again.

"Catherine, hold firm," you encourage. "Don't let him pull those puppy dog eyes on you. I guarantee this is not as innocent as it sounds. Comparing our fathers is like comparing apples and oranges, trust me."

Paul does seem to consider Catherine's words, though, looks over his shoulder at Sam. Sam waves and Paul promptly waves back. You manage a very awkward wave of the hand yourself.

Sam thinks you proposed to Catherine and he's. . .happy? When he begins to make his way over to you, you confirm that Sam Braun is one happy-go-lucky, mobster daddy.

Your brother, Paul Sidle has befriended Sam Braun and suddenly it becomes very clear that you can't scuffle with fate. You don't have a chance. Maybe you don't have a choice. Fate has personified itself in the form of your girlfriend's father. You're not sure you can fight this.

Oh, and just in case you thought the surprises were over, a gentle tap on your shoulder takes your attention away from Sam and your eyes meet the hard stare of Conrad Ecklie. He smirks at you and says snottily, "Congrats, Sidle. After this is over, I wanna talk with you and Catherine, okay? Nothing serious, I promise. Just gotta sort this out, okay?"

You half-smile at him, wondering what Ecklie plans to sort out.

"Muggs!"

Great. Here comes Daddy. You go to shoo Ecklie away, but he's already gone.

"Sam," Catherine greets her father begrudgingly. "Paul says you helped with. . .this."

"_This_ is your engagement party, Catherine. Act like it is, for Pete's sake," Sam says, grinning from ear to ear. He walks over to Paul, wraps a friendly arm around his shoulders. You have to steel yourself, keep from lurching forward and pushing Sam away. Sam pokes a playful finger into Paul's chest and exclaims, "This young man here showed up at my casino demanding to see me."

"Did he now?" Catherine says, trying to stay cordial.

"He sure did!" Sam beams. "Even when my bouncers tried to turn him away, he was quite persistent. Said he needed to see Catherine's Dad for something very important. He said 'love was at stake', didn't you Paul?"

Paul nods proudly.

"He said to me, 'Mr. Braun. I have a sister who has fallen in love with your daughter and she thinks I hate her for it. I need your help to prove that I don't'," Sam goes on. He looks at you both. "I told Paul that I had a similar mission. I needed to prove to my daughter that I loved her deeply, even if she thought I was a hardened criminal. I would love her, no matter what."

Sam is talking like some pumped up radio announcer (which is the total opposite of his usually cool demeanor), but his words are oddly sincere. (Of course, he may be drunk.) Or maybe it's because he sounds more like a proud father. He's proud that Catherine chose you. He likes that Catherine chose you. He thinks you're engaged.

"I told Sam that I was crazy, but I was getting better," Paul jumps in next. "Sam said he could help me get schooling. Help me get a job."

The favor. That's what you were waiting to learn. Paul got a party _and_ a job. You'd bet any amount of money Paul got a job in one of Sam's casinos.

You look at Sam, your gaze hardening involuntarily. "You said that to him?"

"Well, actually, it was Lily who suggested it to me," Sam admits. "She walked in on us, while we were discussing the party. She told me later that Paul wanted to go to school; asked if I could help with that."

The surprises just keep on coming.

"Mom told you that Paul wanted to go to school?" Catherine asks. Apparently, she's just as surprised as you are that Lily even considered Paul's well-being.

"She knew I had connections," Sam shrugs. He finally releases Paul from his fatherly hug and shoves his hands into his pockets. "Paul is a good kid, Sara. You should be proud of him. I know I already love him like he's my own son."

At this, Paul beams at you. You force a smile back. This is turning out to be one hellava night.

Paul found the mother he never had in Catherine. Now you think he's turned to Sam as that missing father figure. Now you understand what Paul meant by 'we'll be a real family now'. He was including Sam Braun. You can suddenly picture the family Christmas card. Lily and Sam sitting in chairs. You and Catherine standing directly behind them, wondering if full blown smiles are appropriate. Lindsey and Paul off to the sides, one hand resting on Sam and Lily's chairs.

You suddenly want to vomit.

"So, you two set a date yet?" Sam asks, back to all-business-Braun. "I can definitely help with expenses. Nothing is too good for Muggs here."

"Date?" you repeat weakly.

"I was thinking spring," Sam continues. "Paul likes summer. California is too hot in the summer, but Massachusetts! That'd be a good time. What do you think?"

Fate. Can you really fight Sam on this? Can you?

You look at Catherine now and of all the things you thought you were gonna say, you didn't expect a slow smile to cross your face. She doesn't like that smile. You don't like it either, but it's there. She shakes her head at first, protests lightly, "Sara, no. No, Sara."

She then pauses, her eyes connecting with yours in a way they never had before. The level of understanding and the level of confusion never fused together so nicely, not like this. She now smiles at you. Uncertainly, she repeats your name, "Sara?"

You look at her, ask her the same question. "Catherine?"

She still seems uncertain, politely excusing you both and pulling you away from Sam and Paul. She's trying to protest, but words don't leave her mouth. You're still hoping you don't puke. Then one voice saves you from saying the words out loud.

"You know you're going to eventually."

Grissom? You forgot he was hovering close by, keeping watch. He innocuously sips at his wine, his eyes twinkle at the two of you and he passes along that trusting smile. He promises, "I'll handle Ecklie. You two, just enjoy the night."

Then he leaves you both somewhat stunned by his forwardness. You return your eyes to Catherine and the uncertainty that was once there is gone now. She turns back to Sam finally and smiles, "Spring. I like the spring."

"Glad you're finally on board, darling," Sam jokes.

Paul slides up next to you, wraps an arm around your shoulders. "See? Great party."

You hug him to you, promise through clenched teeth. "Don't think you're off the hook yet, buddy. This is far from over."

Paul grunts a little in your grip. "Sara. You're hugging too tight. . "

"Because I _love_ you, Paul," you tell him, teeth still clenched. Smile stretched taut.

"Maybe I should get Sam to plan my funeral?" Paul suggests, trying to make light of the situation. He knows he's dead once this party is over.

"Maybe you should," you confirm.

There's a loud pop sound behind you. Greg has shaken up a bottle of champagne and it exploded, drenching both himself and Nick in the stuff. Nick doesn't look too happy about that, no surprise. Honestly, you wonder why it took so long for Greg to get totally wasted. Then the former lab techie raises a half empty glass, proposes a toast.

"To the hottest couple at the Las Vegas crime lab!" he proclaims. "If you ever consider a threesome, call me!"

The nearby crowds laugh. You add Greg to your list of people to kill before the night is over.

You hug Paul closer to you, very tightly. He starts to squirm, knowing he should probably start running away from you. Catherine joins you, wrapping her arm around Paul and sandwiching him between the two of you. Paul can tell this is far from a loving family embrace.

A flash goes off. A camera. This must be the local newspaper Greg was talking about. You can see the headline: Identity of Braun 's Daughter Confirmed; Gay Wedding in Cali To Follow. Then in a small caption below the picture: Brother of Sara Sidle found dead in ditch a day later.

Paul laughs nervously. "Great photo, right? A keeper. Please don't kill me. Would it help if I said I did it out of love?"

To this, both you and Catherine promptly answer, "No!"

Paul has finally decided this family hug is too much. He slips free and disappears into the dancing crowd, escaping. Maybe he's off to find Lisa. You know you could certainly use a little therapy right now.

Catherine hooks an arm in yours, muses aloud. "Paul is going to drive me crazy, isn't he?"

You half smile, see Paul hiding out by a punch bowl. You say, "Paul has been driving me crazy all my life, even when he wasn't in my life. The short answer? Hell yes, he'll drive you crazy. Send you straight to the looney bin."

"Well, at least we can share the same padded cell then," Catherine jokes, now pulling you to the dance floor. It's time to take Grissom's advice, you suppose. Enjoy the night.

For the first time since you arrived here, you laugh genuinely. You have a good time. You go easy on Paul and even act politely toward Sam. With the way things are now, you and Catherine will be sharing more than just a padded cell at some hole-in-the-wall mental facility.

You'll be sharing family, life, love.

In a way, you have to thank Paul for all of it.

The End


End file.
